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LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MRS. 
ERIC  SCHMIDT 


Vf.  'i 


rf(* 


THE   LAST  ESSAYS 
OF  ELIA 


BY 

CHARLES  LAMB 


(:hi(;a(;() 
DONOHUH,  HENNEBERRY  &  CO. 

407  T(j  425  Dkariujkn   STKEF.!'. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK, 

Blakesmoor  in  H shire 5 

Poor  Kelations 14 

Detached  Tiioughts  on  Books  and  Reading 25 

Stage  Ilhision 35 

Tolhe  Shade  of  Elliston 41 

Ell  istoniaua 45 

The  Old  Margate  Hoy 54 

The  Convalescent 07 

Sanity  of  True  Genius 75 

Captain  Jackson 80 

The  Superannuated  Man 87 

The  Genteel  Style  in  Writing 99 

Barbara  S 107 

The  Tombs  in  the  Abbey 116 

Amicus  Itedivivus 121 

Some  Sonnets  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney 129 

Newspapers  Thirty-Five  Years  Ago 141 

Barrenness  of  the   Imaginative  Faculty  in  the  Pro- 
ductions of  Modern  Art 153 

The  Wedding 172 

Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming  of  Age. . .  182 

Old  China 191 

The  Child-Angel ;  a  Dream 201 

Confessions  of  a  Drunkard 206 


Popular  Fallacies — 

PAGE, 

I.  That  a  Bully  is  Always  a  Coward 220 

II.  That  IlI-(TOtten  Gain  Never  Prospers 121 

III.  That  a  Man  Must  Not  Laugh  at  Plis  Own  Jest.  222 

IV.  That  >Such  a  One  Shows  His  Breeding — That 

it  is  Easy  to  Perceive  He  is  No  Gentle- 
man    223 

V.  That  the  Poor  C'opy  the  Vices  of  the  Pach  ....  224 

vi.  That  Enough  is  as  Good  as  a  Feast 227 

VII.  Of  Two  Disputants  the  Warmest  is  Generally 

in  the  Wrong , 22!) 

v:!i.   That  Verbal  Allusions  are  not  AVit,  Because 

They  Will  Not  Bear  a  Translation 230 

IX.  That  the  Worst  Puns  are  the  Best 231 

X.  That  Handsome  is  That  Handsome  Does 235 

XI.  That  We  Must  Not  Look  a  Gift  Horse  in  the 

Mouth 289 

XII.  That  Home  is  Home,  Though  it  is  Never  So 

Homely 242 

XIII.  That  You  ]Must  Love  Me  and  Love  My  Dog....  249 

XIV.  That  We  Should  Rise  With  the  Lark 255 

XV.  That  We  Should  Lie  Down  With  the  Lamb. ..  259 

XVI.  That  a  Sulky  Temper  is  a  Misfortune 262 


THE  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 


Blakesmoor  in  H shire. 

I  DO  not  know  a  pleasure  more  affecting 
than  to  range  at  will  over  the  deserted  apart- 
ments of  some  line  old  family  mansion. 
The  traces  of  extinct  grandeur  admit  of  a 
better  passion  than  envy;  and  contempla- 
tions on  the  great  and  good,  whom  we  fancy 
in  succession  to  have  been  its  inhabitants, 
weave  for  us  illusions,  incompatible  with 
the  bustle  of  modern  occupancy,  and  vani- 
ties of  foolish  present  aristocracy.  The  same 
difference  of  feeling,  I  think,  attends  us  be- 
tween entering  an  empty  and  a  crowded 
church.  In  the  latter  it  is  chance  but  some 
present  human  frailty, — an  act  of  inatten- 
tion on  the  part  of  some  of  the  auditory, — 
or  a  trait  of  affectation,  or  worse,  vain-glory 
on  that  of  the  preacher, — puts  us  by  our 
best  thoughts,  disharmonizing  the  place  and 
the  occasion.  But  Avouldst  thou  know  the 
beauty  of  holiness  ? — go  alone  on  some  week- 
day, borrowing  the  keys  of  good  Master 


6  ©he  faist  (^^m^  of  (gtia. 

Sexton,  traverse  the  cool  aisles  of  some 
country  church  ;  think  of  the  piety  that  has 
kneeled  there, — the  congregations,  old  and 
young,  that  have  found  consolation  there,-^ 
the  meek  pastor,— the  docile  parishioner. 
With  no  disturbing  emotions,  no  cross  con- 
flicting comparisons,  drink  in  the  tranquil- 
lity of  the  place,  till  thou  thyself  become  as 
fixed  and  motionless  as  the  marble  efBgies 
that  kneel  and  weep  around  thee. 
.  Journej'ing  northward  lately,  I  could  not 
resist  going  some  few  miles  out  of  my  road 
to  look  upon  the  remains  of  an  old  great 
house  with  which  I  had  been  impressed  in- 
this  way  in  infancy.  I  was  apprised  that 
the  owner  of  it  had  lately  pulled  it  down  ; 
still  I  had  a  vague  notion  that  it  could  not 
all  have  perished,  that  so  much  solidity 
with  magnificence  could  not  have  been 
crushed  all  at  once  into  the  mere  dust  and 
rubbish  which  I  found  it. 

The  work  of  ruin  had  proceeded  with  a. 
swift  hand  indeed,  and  the  demolition  of  a 
few  weeks  had  reduced  it  to — an  antiquity. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  indistinction  of 
everything.  Where  had  stood  the  great 
gates  ?  What  bounded  the  court-yard  ? 
Whereabout  did  the  outhouses  commence  ? 
A  few  bricks  only  lay  as  representatives  of 
that  which  was  so  stately  and  so  spacious.. 

Death  does  not  shrink  up  his  human  vic- 
tim at  this  rate.  The  burnt  ashes  of  a  man 
weigh  more  in  their  proportion. 


Had  I  seen  these  brick-and  mortar  knaves- 
at  their  process  of  destruction,  at  the  pluck- 
ing of  every  panel  I  should  have  felt  the 
varlets  at  my  heart.  I  should  have  cried 
out  to  them  to  spare  a  plank  at  least  out  of 
the  cheerful  store-room,  in  whose  hot  win- 
dow-seat I  used  to  sit  and  read  Cowley,  witli 
the  grass-plot  before,  and  the  hum  and  flap- 
pings of  that  one  solitary  wasp  that  ever 
haunted  it  about  me, — it  is  in  mine  ears 
now,  as  oft  as  summer  returns ;  or  a  panel 
of  the  yellow-room. 

Why,  every  plank  and  panel  of  that  house 
for  me  had  magic  in  it.  The  tapestried  bed- 
rooms— tapestry  so  much  better  th»n  paint- 
ing— not  adorning  merely,  but  peopling  the 
wainscots, — at  which  childhood  ever  and 
anon  would  steal  a  look,  shifting  its  coverlet 
(replaced  as  quickly)  to  exercise  its  tender 
courage  in  a  momentary  eye-encounter  with 
those  stern  In-ight  visages,  staring  recipro- 
call}^, — all  Ovid  on  the  walls,  in  colors  viv- 
ider  than  his  descriptions.  Actason  in  mid 
sprout,  Avith  the  unappeasable  prudery  of 
Diana;  and  the  still  more  provoking,  and 
almost  culinary  coolness  of  Dan  Phrebus, 
eel-fashion  delil)erately  divesting  of  IVfarsyas. 

Then,  that  haunted  room — in  which  old 
Mrs.  Battle  died, — whereinto  I  have  crept, 
but  always  in  the  daytime,  with  a  passion 
of  fear ;  and  a  sneaking  curiosity,  terror- 
tainted  to  hold  communication  with  th© 
past.     How  shall  they  haild  it  up  again  f 


It  was  an  old  deserted  place,  yet  not  so 
long  deserted  but  that  traces  of  the  splendor 
of  j)ast  inmates  were  everywhere  apparent. 
Its  furniture  was  still  standing — even  to 
the  tarnished  gilt  leather  battledores,  and 
crumbling  feathers  of  shuttlecocks  in  the 
nursery,  Avhich  told  that  children  had  once 
played  there.  But  I  was  a  lonely  child,  and 
had  the  range  at  will  of  every  ai:)artment, 
knew  every  nook  and  corner,  wondered  and 
worshiped  everywhere. 

The  solitude  of  childhood  is  not  so  much 
the  mother  of  thought,  as  it  is  the  feeder 
of  love,  and  silence,  and  admiration.  So 
strange  a  passion  for  the  place  jjossessed  nie 
in  those  years,  that,  though  there  lay — I 
shame  to  say  how  few  roods  distant  from  the 
mansion — half  hid  by  trees  what  I  judged 
some  romantic  lake,  such  was  the  spell 
which  bound  me  to  the  house,  and  such  my 
carefulness  not  to  pass  its  strict  and  proper 
]3recincts,  that  the  idle  waters  lay  unex- 
plored for  me  ;  and  not  till  late  in  life,  curi- 
osity prevailing  over  elder  devotion,  I  found, 
to  my  astonishment,  a  pretty  brawling  brook 
had  been  the  Lacus  Incognitus  of  my  infancy. 
Variegated  views,  extensive  prospects, — and 
those  at  no  great  distance  from  the  house, — 
I  was  told  of  such — what  were  they  to  me, 
being  out  of  the  boundaries  of  my  Eden  ? — 
So  far  from  a  wish  to  roam,  I  would  have 
drawn,  methought,  still  closer  the  fences  of 
my  chosen  prison  ;  and  have  been  hemmed 


^kt  i^H^t  ^>';&m;j3i  at  (t'lm.  9 


in  by  a  yet  securer  cincture  of  those  exclud- 
ing garden  walls.  I  could  have  exclaimed 
Avith  that  garden-loving  poet — 

"  Bhifl  me,  ye  woodbines,  in  j^our  twines; 
Curl  me  about,  ye  gadding  vines; 
And  oil  so  close  your  circles  lace. 
That  I  may  never  leave  this  place; 
But,  lest  your  fetters  ])rove  too  weak, 
Ere  I  your  silken  bondage  break, 
Do  you,  O  brambles,  chain  me  too. 
And,  courteous  briars,  nail  me  tlirough." 

I  was  here  as  in  a  lonely  temple.  Snug 
fire-sides, — the  low-built  roof, — parlors  ten 
feet  by  ten, — frugal  boards,  and  all  the 
homeliness  of  home, — these  were  the  condi- 
tion of  my  birth, — the  wholesome  soil  which 
I  was  planted  in.  Yet,  without  impeach- 
ment to  tlieir  tenderest  lessons,  I  am  not 
sorry  to  have  had  glances  of  something  be- 
yond; and  to  have  taken,  if  but  a  peep,  in 
childhood,  at  the  contrasting  accidents  of  a 
great  fortune. 

To  have  the  feeling  of  gentility,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  have  been  born  gentle.  The 
pride  of  ancestry  may  be  had  on  cheaper 
terms  than  to  be  obliged  to  an  importunate 
race  of  ancestors ;  and  the  coatless  anti- 
quary in  his  miemblazoned  cell,  revolving 
tlie  long  line  of  a  Mowbray's  or  De  Clifford's 
pedigree,  at  those  sounding  names  may 
warm  himself  into  as  gay  a  vanity  as  these 
who  do  inherit  them.  The  claims  of  birth 
-are  ideal  merely,  and  what  herald  shall  go 


10         m\t  psit  ©s'^ay.^  of  mn. 


about  to  strip  ine  of  an  idea  ?  Is  it  trench- 
ant to  their  swords  ?  can  it  15e  hacked  off  as 
a  spur  can  ?  or  torn  away  like  a  tarnished 
garter  ? 

What  else  Avere  tlie  families  of  the  great 
to  us?  What  pleasure  should  Ave  take  in 
their  tedious  genealogies,  or  their  capitula- 
tory brass  monuments  ?  What  to  us  the 
uninterrupted  current  of  their  bloods,  if  our 
own  did  not  answer  Avitliin  us  to  a  cognate 
and  correspondent  elevation  ? 

Or  wherefore  else,  O  tattered  and  dimin- 
ished 'scutcheon  that  hung  upon  the  time- 
worn  walls  of  thy  princely  stairs,  Blakes- 
MooR  !  have  I  in  childhood  so  oft  stood 
poi'ing  upon  the  mystic  characters, — thy 
emblematic  supporters,  with  their  pro- 
phetic "  Resurgam," — till,  every  dreg  of 
peasantry  purging  off,  I  received  into  myself 
Very  Gentility  ?  Thou  wert  first  in  my 
morning  eyes  ;  and  of  nights  hast  detained 
my  stej)s  from  bedward,  till  it  was  but  a 
step  from  gazing  at  thee  to  dreaming  on 
thee. 

This  is  the  oidy  true  gentry  by  adoption ; 
the  veritable  change  of  blood,  and  not,  as 
empirics  have  fabled,  by  transfusion. 

Who  it  was  by  dying  that  had  earned  the 
splendid  trophy,  I  know  not,  I  inquired  not; 
but  its  f;idiiig  rags,  and  colors  cobweb- 
stained,  told  that  its  subject  was  of  two 
centuries  back. 

And  what  if  my  ancestor  at  that  date  wa& 


some  Damoetas, — feeding  flocks — not  his 
own,  upon  tlie  hills  of  Lincoln, — did  I  in  less 
earnest  vindicate  to  mj^self  the  family  trap- 
pings of  this  once  proud  ^Egon '?  repaying 
by  a  backward  triumph  the  insults  he  might 
j)ossibly  have  heaped  in  his  lifetime  upon  my 
poor  pastoral  progenitor. 

If  it  were  presumption  so  to  speculate,  the 
present  owners  of  the  mansion  had  least  rea- 
son to  complain.  They  had  long  forsaken 
the  old  house  of  their  fathers  for  a  newer 
trifle  ;  and  I  was  left  to  appropriate  to  my- 
self what  images  I  could  pick  up,  to  raise 
my  fancy,  or  to  soothe  my  vanity. 

I  was  the  true  descendant  of  those  old 

W s  ;  and  hot  the  present  family  of  that 

name,  Avho  had  fled  the  old  waste  V)laces. 

Mine  was  tliat  gallery  of  good  old  family 
portraits,  Avhicli  as  I  have  gone  over,  giving 
them  in  fancy  my  own  family  name,  one — 
and  then  another — would  seem  to  smile, 
reaching  forward  from  the  canvas,  to  recog- 
nize the  new  relationship;  while  the  rest 
looked  grave,  as  it  seemed,  at  the  vacancy  in 
their  dwelling,  and  thoughts  of  fled  jjos- 
terity. 

That  Beauty  with  the  cool  blue  pastoral 
drapery,  and  a  lamb — that  hung  next  the 
great  bay  window — with  the  bright  yellow 

H shire  hair,  and  eye  of  wachet  hue — so 

like  my  Alice! — I  am  persuaded  she  was  a 
true  Elia,  Mildred  Elia,  I  take  it. 

Mine    too,  Blakesmoor,  was    thy    noble 


Marble  Hall  with  its  mosaic  pavements,  and 
its  Twelve  Csesars, — stately  busts  in  marble, 
— ranged  round  ;  of  whose  countenances, 
young-  reader  of  faces  as  I  was,  the  frown- 
ing beauty  of  Nero,  I  remember,  had  most 
of  my  wonder;  but  the  mild  Galba  had  my 
love.  There  they  stood  in  the  coldness  of 
death,  yet  freshness  of  immortality. 

Mine  too,  thy  lofty  Justice  Hall,  with  its 
one  chair  of  authority,  high-backed  and  wick- 
ered, once  the  terror  of  luckless  poacher,  or 
self-forgetful  maiden — so  common  since,  that 
bats  have  roosted  in  it. 

Mine  too — whose  else  ? — thy  costly  fruit- 
garden,  Avith  its  sun-baked  southern  wall ; 
the  ampler  i:)leasure  garden,  rising  back- 
wards from  the  house  in  triple  terraces, 
with  flower-pots  now  of  palest  lead,  save 
that  a  -speck  here  and  there,  saved  from  the 
elements,  bespake  their  pristine  state  to  have 
been  gilt  and  glittering ;  the  verdant  quar- 
ters backwarder  still ;  and,  stretching  still 
beyond,  in  old  formality,  thy  firry  wilder- 
ness, the  haunt  of  the  squirrel,  and  the  day- 
long murmuring  wood-pigeon,  with  that  an- 
tique image  in  the  center,  God  or  Goddess  I 
wist  not ;  but  child  of  Athens  or  old  Rome 
paid  never  a  sincerer  worship  to  Pan  or  to 
Sylvanus  in  their  native  groves,  than  I  to 
that  fragmental  mystery. 

Was  it  for  this,  that  I  kissed  my  childish 
hands  too  fervently  in  your  idol- worship, 
walks  and  v/indings  of  Blakesmoor!  for 


®Ue  i^asit  (g^^ay^  of  dim,  IS 


this,  or  what  sin  of  mine,  has  the  plow  passed 
over  your  pleasant  places?  I  sometimes^ 
think  that  as  men,  when  they  die,  do  not  die 
all,  so  of  their  extina^nished  habitations  there 
may  be  a  hope — a  germ  to  be  reviviheU.. 


14  ©he  |:a.$t  (^^^ix\p  of  i^lm. 


Poor  Relations. 

A  Poor  Relation — is  the  most  irrelevant 
thing  in  nature, — a  piece  of  inij^ertinent  cor- 
respondency,— an  oclious  approximation, — 
a  haunting  conscience,  —  a  preposterous 
shaclo^y,  lengthening  in  the  noontide  of  our 
prosperity, — an  unwelcome  remembrancer, 
— a  perpetually  recurring  mortification, — a 
drain  on  your  purse, — a  more  intolerable 
dun  upon  your  pride, — a  drawback  upon  suc- 
cess,— a  rebuke  to  your  rising, — a  stain  in 
your  blood, — a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon, — a 
rent  in  your  garment, — a  death's  head  at 
your  banquet, — Agathocles's  pot,— a  Mor- 
decai  in  your  gate,  a  Lazarus  at  your  door, 
a  lion  in  your  path, — a  frog  in  your  cham- 
ber,— a  fly  in  your  ointment, — a  mote  in 
your  eye,  —  a  triumph  to  your  enemy,  an 
apology  to  your  friends, — the  one  thing  not 
needful, — the  hail  in  harvest, — the  ounce  of 
sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.     Your  heart 

telleth  you   "That   is  Mr.  ."     A  rap 

between  familiarity  and  respect  ;  that  de- 
mands and  at  the  same  time  seems  to  de- 


®h«  i^a^t  (^^^m^^  oi  (gtia.  15 


spair  of,  entertainment.  He  entereth  smil- 
ing and — embarrassed.  He  holdeth  out  his 
hand  to  you  to  shake,  and — draweth  it  back 
again.  He  casually  looketh  in  about  dinner- 
time— when  the  table  is  full.  He  offereth 
to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company, — but 
is  induced  to  stay.  He  filleth  a  chair,  and 
your  visitor's  two  chikb'en  are  accommo- 
dated at  a  side-table.  He  never  cometli  upon 
open  days,  when  your  wife  says  witli  some 

complacency,  "My   dear,  perhaps   Mr. 

will  drop  in  to-day."  He  remembereth  birth- 
days,— and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have 
stumbled  upon  one.  He  declaretli  against 
fish,  the  turl)ot  being  small — yet  suffereth 
himself  to  be  importimed  into  a  slice,  against 
his  first  resolution.  He  sticketh  by  the  port, 
— yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to  empty  the 
remainder  glass  of  claret,  if  a  stranger  press 
it  upon  him.  He  is  a  puzzle  to  the  servants, 
who  are  fearful  of  ])eing  too  obsequious,  or  not 
civil  enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think  "  they 
have  seen  him  before."  Every  one  speculat- 
eth  upon  his  condition;  and  the  most  part 
take  him  to  be — a  tide  waiter.  He  calletli 
you  by  your  Christian  name,  to  imply  that 
his  other  is  the  same  with  your  own.  He  is 
too  familiar  by  lialf,  yet  you  wish  he  had 
less  diffidence.  With  half  the  familiarity, 
he  miglit  pass  for  a  casual  dei)endent ;  with 
more  boldness,  he  would  be  in  no  danger  of 
being  taken  for  what  he  is.  He  is  too  luim- 
ble  for  a  friend;  yet  taketh  on  him  more 


16  (The  p.^t  €$m^  of  (gtia. 


state  than  befits  a  client.  He  is  a  worse 
guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inasmuch  as  he 
bringetli  up  no  rent — yet  'tis  odds,  from  his 
garb  and  demeanor,  that  your  guests  take 
him  for  one.  He  is  asked. to  make  one  at  the 
wliist  table ;  refuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty, 
and — resents  being  left  out.  When  the  com- 
pany break  up,  he  profferetli  to  go  for  a 
coach — and  lets  the  servant  go.  He  recol- 
lects your  grandfather ;  and  will  thrust  in 
some  mean  and  quite  unimportant  anecdote 
— of  the  family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not 
quite  so  flourishing  as  "  he  is  blest  in  seeing 
it  now."  He  reviveth  past  situations,  to  in- 
stitute Avhat  he  calleth — favorable  compari- 
sons. With  a  reflecting  sort  of  congratula- 
tion, he  will  inquire  the  price  of  your  furni- 
ture ;  and  insults  you  with  a  special  com- 
mendation of  your  window-curtains.  He  is 
of  opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more  elegant 
shape,  but,  after  all,  there  was  something 
more  comfortable  about  the  old  tea-kettle, — 
which  you  must  remember.  He  dare  say 
you  must  find  a  great  convenience  in  having 
a  carriage  of  your  own,  and  appealeth  to 
your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth  if  you 
have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet;  and 
did  not  know,  till  lately,  that  such-and-such 
had  been  the  crest  of  the  family.  His 
memory  is  unseasonable;  his  compliments 
perverse  ;  his  talk  a  trouble  ;  his  stay  perti- 
nacious ;  and  when  he  goeth  aAvay,  you  dis- 
miss his  chair  into  a  coi'ner,  as  precipitately 


^\it  fajst  (g.ssay^  0^  (^li«.  17 


as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid  of  two  nui- 
sances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and 
that  is — a  female  Poor  Relation.  You  may 
do  something  with  the  other ;  you  may  pass 
him  off  tolerably  well;  but  your  indigent 
she-relative  is  hopeless.  "He  is  an  old 
humorist,"  you  may  say,  "  and  affects  to  go 
threadbare.  His  circumstances  are  better 
than  folks  would  take  them  to  be.  You 
are  fond  of  having  a  Character  at  your  table, 
and  truly  he  is  one."  But  in  the  indications 
of  female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise. 
Ko  womun  dresses  below  herself  from  cap- 
rice.    The  truth  must  out  v/ithout  shuffling. 

"  She  is  plainly  related  to  the  L s ;  or 

what  does  she  at  their  house  ?  "  She  is,  in 
all  probiibility,  your  wife's  cousin.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case. 
Her  garb  is  something  between  a  gentle- 
woman and  a  beggar,  yet  the  former  evi- 
dently predominates.  She  is  most  pro- 
vokingly  humble,  and  ostentatiously  sensi- 
ble to  her  inferiority.  He  may  require  to  be 
repressed  sometimes — aliquando  sufilamui- 
andus  erat — but  there  is  no  raising  her. 
You  send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and  she  begs 

to  be  helped — after  tlie  gentlemen.   Mr. 

requests  the  honor  of  taking  wine  with  her ; 
she  hesitates  be^-ween  Port  and  jMadeira,  and 
chooses  the  former — because  he  does.  She 
calls  the  servant  ^Slr ;  and  insists  on  not 
troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
2 


18  ^ht  i;a5t  (??^.$ay.s  at  (Bliix, 


keeper  patronizes  her.  The  children's  gover- 
ness takes  upon  her  to  correct  her  Avhen  she 
has  mistaken  the  piano  for  the  harpsichord., 
Richard  Amlet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a 
notable  instance  of  the  disadvantages,  to 
which  this  chimerical  notion  of  affinity  con- 
stituting a  claim  to  acquaintance,  may  sub- 
ject the  spirit  of  a  gentleman.  A  little  fool- 
ish blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt  him  and  a  lady 
with  a  great  estate.  His  stars  are  perpetu- 
ally crossed  by  the  malignant  maternity  of 
an  old  woman,  who  persists  in  calling  him 
"  her  son  Dick."  But  she  has  wherewithal 
in  the  end  to  recompense  his  indignities,  and 
float  him  again  upon  the  brilliant  sur- 
face, under  Avliich  it  had  been  her  seeming 
business  and  pleasure  all  along  to  sink  him. 
All  men,  besides,  are  not  of  Dick's  tempera- 
ment. I  knew  an  Amlet  in  real  life,  who^ 
wanting    Dick's    buoyancy,    sank    indeed. 

Poor  W was  of  my.  own  standing  at 

Christ's,  a  fine  classic,  and  a  youth  of  prom- 
ise. If  he  had  a  blemish,  it  was  too  much 
pride ;  but  its  quality  was  inoffensive ;  it 
was  not  of  that  sort  which  hardens  the  heart, 
and  serves  to  keep  inferiors  at  a  distance; 
it  only  sought  tO  ward  off  derogation  from 
itself.  It  was  the  principle  of  self-respect 
carried  as  far  as  it  could  go  without  infring- 
ing upon  that  respect,  which  he  would 
have  every  one  else  equally  maintain  for 
himself,  lie  would  have  you  to  think  alike 
with  him  on  this  tofpic.     Many  a  quarrel 


^hc  i:a^t  (^^$inp  oi  min,  19 


have  I  had  with  hhii,  when  we  were  rather 
older  boys,  and  our  talhiess  made  us  more 
obnoxious  to  observation  in  tlie  bhie  clothes, 
because  I  would  not  thread  the  alleys 
mu\  blind  ways  of  the  town  with  him  to 
elude  notice,  when  we  have  been  out  to- 
gether on  a  holiday  in  the  streets  of  this 

sneering  and   prying  metropolis.     W 

WTut,  sore  with  these  notions,  to  Oxford, 
where  the  dignity  and  sweetness  of  a  schol- 
ar's life,  meeting  with  the  alloy  of  a  humble 
hitroduction,  wrought  in  him  a  passionate 
devotion  to  the  place,  with  a  profound  aver- 
sion from  the  society.  The  servitor's  gown 
(worse  than  his  school  array)  clung  to  him 
with  Xessian  venom.  He  thought  himself 
ridiculous  in  a  garb,  under  which  Latimer 
must  have  walked  erect,  and  in  which 
Hooker,  in  his  young  days,  possibly  flaunted 
in  a  vein  of  no  discommendalile  vanity.  In 
the  depth  of  college  shades,  or  in  his  lonely 
chamber,  the  poor  student  shrunk  from  ob- 
servation. He  found  shelter  among  books, 
which  insult  not ;  and  studies,  that  ask  no 
questions  of  a  youth's  finances.  He  was 
lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom  cared  for 
looking  out  beyond  his  domains.  The  heal- 
ing influence  of  studious  pursuits  was  upon 
him,  to  soothe  and  to  abstract.  He  was 
almost  a  healthy  man  ;  when  the  wayward- 
ness of  his  fate  broke  out  against  him  with 
a  second  and  worse  malignity.  The  father 
of  Vr had  hitherto  exercised  the  humble 


20  5?hc  i:a;st  (g^'.aaM,^  of  miix. 


profession  of  house-painter  at  X ,  near- 
Oxford.  A  supposed  interest  with  some  of 
the  heads  of  colleges  had  now  induced  him 
to  take  up  his  abode  in  tliat  city,  with  the 
hope  of  being  emj^loyed  upon  some  pubUc 
works  which  were  talked  of.  From  that 
moment  I  read  in  the  countenance  of  the 
young  man  the  determination  which  at 
length  tore  him  from  academical  pursuits 
forever.  To  a  person  unacquainted  with 
our  universities,  the  distance  between  the 
gownsmen  and  the  townsmen,  as  they  are 
called — the  trading  part  of  the  latter  espe- 
cially— is  carried  to  an  excess  that  would 
appear  harsh  and  incredible.  The  tempera- 
ment of  W 's  father  was  diametrically 

the  reverse  of  his  own.     Old  W was  a 

little,  busy,  cringing  tradesman,  who,  with 
his  son  upon  his  arm,  would  stand  bo^^^'ing 
and  scraping,  cap  in  hand,  to  anything  that 
wore  the  semblance  of  a  gown, — insensible 
to  the  winks  and  opener  remonstrances  of 
the  young  man,  to  whose  chamber-fellow, 
or  equal  in  standing,  perhaps,  he  was  thus 
obsequiously  and  gratuitously  ducking. 
Such    a    state    of  things    could  not  last. 

W must  change  the  air  of  Oxford,  or  be 

suffocated.  He  chose  the  former ;  and  let 
the  sturdy  moralist,  who  strains  the  point 
of  the  filial  duties  as  high  as  they  can  bear, 
censure  the  dereliction ;    he  cannot  estimate 

the  struggle.     I  stood  with  AV ,  the  last 

afternoon  I  ever  saw  him,  under  the  eaves  of 


m\t  p,$t  (^^^mp  of  (fUa.  21 


his  paternal  dwelling.  It  was  in  the  fine 
lane  leading  from   the  High  Street  to  the 

back  of College,  where  W kept  his 

rooms.  He  seemed  thoughtfnl  and  more 
reconciled.  I  ventured  to  rally  him — find- 
ing him  in  a  better  mood — upon  a  represen- 
tation of  the  Artist  Evangelist,  which  the 
old  man,  whose  aft'airs  were  beginning  to 
flourish,  had  caused  to  be  set  up  in  a  splen- 
did sort  of  frame  over  his  really  handsome 
shop,  either  as  a  token  of  prosperity  or 
badge  of  gratitude  to  his  saints.     "W 


looked  up  at  the  Luke,  and,  like  Satan, 
"  knew  his  mounted  sign — and  fled."  A  let- 
ter on  his  father's  table  the  next  morning 
announced  that  he  had  accepted  a  commis- 
sion in  a  regiment  about  to  embark  for 
Portugal.  He  was  among  the  first  who  per- 
ished before  the  walls  of  St.  Sebastian. 

I  do  not  know  how,  upon  a  suljject  which 
I  began  by  treating  half  seriously,  I  should 
have  fallen  upon  a  recital  so  eminently  pain- 
ful; but  this  theme  of  poor  relationship 
is  replete  with  so  nuich  matter  for  tragic  as 
well  as  comic  associations,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  keep  the  account  distinct  without  blend- 
ing. The  earliest  impressions  which  I  re- 
ceived on  this  matter,  are  certainly  not 
attended  with  anything  painful  or  very 
humiliating  in  the  recalling.  At  my  father's 
table  (no  very  splendid  one)  was  to-l)e found, 
every  Saturday,  the  mj^sterious  figure  of  an 
aged  gentleman,  clothed  in  neat  black,  of  a 


•22  ^\\t  pvst  (^^^mp  at  (BUiu 

sad  yet  comely  appearance.  His  deportment 
was  of  the  essence  of  gravity ;  his  words 
few  or  none ;  and  I  was  not  to  make  a  noise 
in  his  presence.  I  had  Uttle  inclination  to 
have  done  so — for  my  cue  was  to  admire  in 
silence.  A  particular  elbow-chair  was  ap- 
l")ropriated  to  him,  which  was  in  no  case  to 
be  violated.  A  peculiar  sort  of  sweet  juid- 
ding-,  which  appeared  on  no  otlier  occasion^ 
disting'uislied  the  days  of  his  coming'.  I 
used  to  think  him  a  prodigiously  rich  man. 
All  I  could  make  out  of  him  vras,  that  he 
and  my  father  had  been  school-fellows,  a 
world  ag-o,  at  Lincoln,  and  that  he  came 
from  the  Mint.  The  Mint  I  knew  to  be  a 
place  where  all  the  money  was  coined — and 
I  thoug;ht  he  was  the  owner  of  all  that 
money.  Awful  ideas  of  the  Tower  twined 
themselves  about  his  presence.  lie  seemed 
above  human  infirmities  and  passions.  A 
sort  of  melancholy  grandeur  invested  him. 
From  some  inexplicable  doom  I  fancied  him 
obliged  to  go  about  in  an  eternal  suit  of 
mourning;  a  captive — a  stately  being,  let 
out  of  the  Tower  on  Saturdays.  Often  have 
I  wondered  at  the  temerity  of  my  father, 
who,  in  spite  of  an  haljitual  general  respect 
which  we  all  in  common  manifested  towards 
him,  would  venture  now  and  then  to  stand 
up  against  him  in  some  argument,  touching 
their  youthful  daj^s.  The  houses  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Lincoln  are  divided  (as  most 
of  my  readers   know)  between  the  dwellers 


^h(  Xn^t  (^$^n\\^  0f  mm,  23 


on  the  hill  and  in  the  valley.  This  marked 
distinction  formed  an  obvious  division  be- 
tAveen  the  boys  who  lived  above  (ho\vever 
brought  tog-ether  in  a  common  school)  and 
the  boys  whose  paternal  residence  Avas  on 
the  plain ;  a  sufScient  cause  of  hostility  in 
the  code  of  these  young  Grotiuses.  My 
father  had  been  a  leading  Mountaineer  ;  and 
would  still  maintain  the  general  superiority, 
in  skill  and  hardihood,  of  the  Above  Boys 
(his  own  faction)  over  the  Below  Boi/s  {so 
were  they  called),  of  which  party  his  con- 
temporary had  been  a  chieftain.  Many  and 
hot  were  the  skirmishes  on  this  topi(3 — the 
only  one  upon  which  the  old  gentleman  was 
C:ver  brought  out — and  bad  blood  bred  ;  even 
sometimes  almost  to  the  reconnnencement 
(so  1  expected)  of  actual  hostilities.  But  my 
lather,  who  scorned  to  insist  upon  advan- 
tages, generally  contrived  to  turn  the  con- 
versation upon  some  adroit  by-conuiiendation 
of  the  old  Minster ;  in  the  general  prefer- 
ence of  which,  before  all  other  cathedrals  in 
the  island,  the  dweller  on  the  hill,  and  the 
plain-born,  could  meet  on  a  conciliating  level, 
and  lay  down  their  less  important  differ- 
ences. Once  only  I  saw  the  old  gentleman 
really  ruffled,  and  I  remembered  with  an- 
guish the  thought  that  came  over  me  :  "  Per- 
haps he  will  never  come  here  again."  He 
had  been  x)ressed  to  take  another  plate  of 
the  viand,  which  I  have  already  mentioned 
as  the    indispensable   concomitant    of  his 


24  ^\it  H:a,ot  (£^^i\\\^  of  ^Ha. 


visits.  He  had  refused  Tvatli  a  resistance 
amounting'  to  rigor,  \ylien  my  aunt — an  old 
Lincolnian,  but  \Aio  had  something  of  this, 
in  common  ^^"ith  my  cousin  Bridget,  that 
she  would  sometimes  press  civility  out  of 
season — uttered  the  following  memorable 
apiolication, — "Do  take  another  slice,  Mv. 
Billet,  for  you  do  not  get  pudding  every 
day."  The  old  gentleman  said  nothing  at 
the  time  ;  but  he  took  occasion  in  the  course 
of  the  evening  when  some  argument  had 
intervened  between  them,  to  litter  with  an 
emphasis  which  chilled  the  company,  and 
which  chills  me  now  as  1  wa-ite  it — "  Woman, 
you  are  superannuated ! "  John  Billet  did 
not  survive  long,  after  the  digesting  of  this 
affront ;  but  he  survived  long  enough  to 
assure  me  that  peace  was  actually  restored  ! 
and,  if  1  remember  aright,  another  pudding 
was  discreetly  substituted  in  the  i")lace  of 
that  which  had  occasioned  the  offense.  He 
died  at  the  Mint  (anno  1781)  where  he  had 
long  held  Avhat  he  accounted  a  comfortable 
independence ;  and  with  five  pounds  four- 
teen shillings  and  a  penny,  which  were 
found  in  his  escritoire  after  his  decea'se,  left 
the  world,  blessing  God  that  he  had  enough 
to  bury  him,  and  that  he  had  never  been 
obliged  to  any  man  for  a  sixpence.  This 
was — a  Poor  lielatiou. 


mt  f  a,«t  (B^m3^  0f  ($Wa.  25 


Detached    Thoughts  on   Books 
and  Reading. 


To  mind  the  inside  of  a  book  is  to  entertain  one's 
self  with  the  forced  product  of  another  man's  brain. 
Now  I  think  a  man  of  quality  and  breeding  may  be 
much  anuised  wiih  th<^  natural  sprouts  of  his  own. — 
Lord  Fopimujton  in  the  Relapse. 

Ax  ingenious  acquaintance  of  my  own 
was  so  much  struck  with  this  bri<:^ht  saUy 
of  his  Lordship,  tliat  he  has  left  ok  reading 
altogether,  to  the  great  improvement  of  his 
originality.  At  the  hazard  of  losing  some 
credit  on  this  head,  I  must  confess  that  I 
dedicate  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  my 
time  to  other  people's  thoughts.  I  dream 
away  my  life  in  others'  speculations.  I  love 
to  lose  myself  in  other  men's  minds.  "When 
I  am  not  walking,  I  am  reading ;  I  cannot 
sit  and  think.     Books  think  for  me. 

I  have  no  repugnances.  Shaftesbury  is 
not  too  genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild 
too  low.  I  can  read  anything  which  I  call 
u  hook.  There  are  things  in  that  shape 
which  T  cannot  allow  for  such. 

In  this  catalogue  of  books  v^Jilch  are  no 
looks — MOlia  a-biUia — I  reckon  Court  Cal- 


endars,  Directories,  Pocket-boolvs,  Draught 
Boards,  "bound  and  lettered  on  tlie  back, 
Scientific  Treatises,  Almanacs,  Statutes  at 
Large  ;  tlie  works  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Robert- 
son, Beattie,  Soame  Jenyns,  and  generally, 
all  those  volumes  which  "no  gentleman's 
library  should  be  without;"  the  Histories 
of  Flavins  Josephus  (that  learned  Jew),  and 
Paley's  Moral  Philosophy.  With  these 
exceptions,  I  can  read  almost  anything.  I 
bless  my  stars  for  a  taste  so  catholic,  so 
un  excluding. 

I  confess  that  it  moves  my  spleen  to  see 
these  thinr/s  in  books''  clothing  perched  upon 
shelves,  like  false  saints,  usurpers  of  true 
shrines,  intruders  into  the  sanctuary,  thrust- 
ing out  the  legitimate  occupants.  To  reach 
down  a  well-bound  semblance  of  a  volume, 
and  hope  it  some  kind-hearted  play-book, 
then,  opening  what  "  seem  its  leaves,"  to 
come  bolt  upon  a  withering  Population 
Essay.  To  expect  a  Steele,  or  a  Farquhar, 
and  find — Adam  Smith.  To  view  a  •  well- 
arranged  assortment  of  blockheaded  Ency- 
clopaedias (^Vnglicanas  or  Metropolitanas) 
set  out  in  an  array  of  Russia,  or  Morocco, 
when  a  tithe  of  that  good  leather  woulcl 
comfortably  reclothe  my  shivering  folios  ; 
would  renovate  Paracelsus  himself,  and  en- 
able old  Raymund  Lully  to  look  like  him- 
self again  in  the  world.  I  never  see  these 
impostors,  but  I  long  to  strip  them,  to  warm 
my  ragged  veterans  in  their  spoils. 


To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the 
desideratum  of  a  volume.  Magnificence 
comes  after.  This,  when  it  can  be  afforded, 
is  not  to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of  books 
indiscriminately.  I  would  not  dress  a  set 
of  Magazines,  for  instance,  in  full  suit.  The 
dishabille,  or  half-binding  (with  Russia 
backs  ever)  is  on?'  costume.  A  Shakespeare^ 
or  a  Milton  (unless  the  first  editions),  it 
Avere  mere  foppery  to  trick  out  in  gay 
apparel. 

The  possession  of  them  confers  no  dis- 
tinction. The  exterior  of  them  (the  things 
themselves  being  so  common),  strange  to  say, 
raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  tickling  sense 
of  property  in  the  owner.  Thomson's  Sea- 
sons, again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  a  little 
torn,  and  dog's-eared.  How  beautiful  to  a 
genuine  lover  of  reading  are  the  sullied 
leaves,  and  worn-out  appearance,  nay  the 
very  odor  (beyond  Russia),  if  Ave  would  not 
forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidiousness,  of  an 
old  "  Circulating  Library "  Tom  Jones,  or 
Vicar  of  Wakefield !  How  they  speak  of  the 
thousand  thumbs  that  have  turned  over 
their  pages  with  delight! — of  the  lone  seam- 
stress, whom  they  may  have  cheered  (milli- 
n.er,  or  hard-working  mantua-maker)  after 
her  long  day's  needle-toil,  running  far  into 
midnight,  when  she  has  snatched  an  hour, 
ill  spared  from  sleep  to  steep  her  cares,  as 
in  some  Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  out  their 
enchanting  contents  !      Who  would   have 


28  ^]\t  ^a.^t  (^^m^  0f  6Iia. 


them  a  whit  less  soiled  ?     What  better  con- 
dition could  we  desire  to  see  them  in  ? 

In  some  respects  the  better  a  book  is,  the 
less  it  demands  from  binding.  Fielding, 
Smollett,  Sterne,  and  all  that  class  of  per- 
petually self-reproductive  volumes — Great 
Nature's  stereot^ypes — we  see  them  individ- 
ually perish  with  less  regret,  because  we 
know  the  copies  of  them  to  be  "-eterne." 
But  where  a  book  is  at  once  both  good  and 
rare — where  the  individual  is  almost  the 
species,  and  when  t/iat  perishes, 

We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  torch 
That  can  its  light  rehimine — 

such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle,  by  his  Duchess — no 
casket  is  rich  enough,  no  casing  sufficiently 
durable,  to  honor  and  keep  safe  such  a  jewel. 
Not  only  rare  volumes  of  this  description, 
which  seem  hopeless  ever  to  be  reprinted, 
but  old  editions  of  writers,  such  as  Sir 
Philip  Sydney,  Bishop  Taylor,  Milton  in  liis 
prose  works.  Fuller — of  whom  we  have 
reprints,  yet  the  books  themselves,  though 
they  go  about,  and  are  talked  of  here  and 
there,  we  know,  have  not  endenizened  them- 
selves (nor  possibly  ever  Avill)  in  the  national 
heart,  so  as  to  become  stock  books — it  is  good 
to  possess  these  in  durable  and  costly  covers. 
I  do  not  care  for  a  First  Folio  of  Shakespeare. 
I  rather  prefer  the  common  editions  of  Kowe 


and  Tonson,  without  notes,  and  with  plates 
which,  being  so  execrably  bad,  serve  as 
maps,  or  modest  remembrancers,  to  the  text ; 
and  witliout  pretending  to  any  supposable 
emulation  with  it,  are  so  much  better  than 
the  Shakespeare  gallery  eufjramngs  which 
did.  I  have  a  comnmnity  of  feeling  with 
my  countrymen  about  his  Plays,  aild  I  like 
those  editions  of  him  best,  which  have  been 
oftenest  tumbled  about  and  handled.  On 
the  contrary,  I  cannot  read  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  but  in  Folio,  The  Octavo  editions 
are  painful  to  look  at.  I  have  no  sympathy 
with  them.  If  they  were  as  much  read  as 
the  current  editions  of  the  other  poet,  I 
should  prefer  them  in  that  shape  to  the 
older  one.  I  do  not  know  a  more  heart- 
less sight  tlian  the  reprint  of  the  Anatomy 
of  ^Melancholy.  What  need  was  there  of 
unearthing  the  bones  of  that  fantastic  old 
great  man,  to  expose  them  in  a  winding-sheet 
of  the  newest  fashion  to  modern  censure? 
what  hapless  stationer  could  dream  of  Bur- 
ton ever  becoming  popular?  The  wretched 
Malone  could  not  do  worse,  when  he  bribed 
the  sexton  of  Stratford  church  to  let  him 
whitewash  the  painted  effigy  of  old  Shakes- 
peare, which  stood  there,  in  rude  but  lively 
fashion  dei)icted,  to  the  very  color  of  the 
cheek,  tlie  eye,  the  eyebrovv%  hair,  the  very 
dress  he  used  to  wear — the  only  authentic 
testimony  we  had,  however  imperfect,  'of 
these   curious   parts   and  parcels   of    him» 


30  ®lte  f  a*it  (^^fsnxp  at  min. 


They  covered  him  over  with  a  coat  of  white- 
paint.     By  ^,  if  I  had  been   a   justice 

of  peace  for  Warwickshire,  I  would  have 
clapt  both  commentator  and  sexton  fast 
in  tlie  stoclcs,  for  a  pair  of  meddling  sacri- 
legions  varlets. 

1  think  I  see  them  at  their  work  thesQ 
sapient  trouble-tombs. 

Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical,  if  I  confess, 
that  the  names  of  some  of  our  poets  sound 
sweeter,  and  have  a  finer  relish  to  the  ear — 
to  mine,  at  least — than  that  of  Milton  or  of 
Shakespeare?  It  may  be,  that  the  latter 
are  more  staled  and  rung  upon  in  common 
discourse.  The  sweetest  names,  and  which 
carry  a  perfume  in  the  mention,  are  Kit 
Marlowe,  Drayton,  Drummond  of  Ilaw- 
thornden,  and  Cowley. 

Much  depends  upon  v:he)i  and  where  you 
read  a  book.  In  the  five  or  six  impatient 
minutes,  before  the  dinner  is  quite  ready, 
who  would  think  of  taking  up  the  Fairy 
Queen  for  a  stopgap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop 
Andrewes's  sermons  ? 

Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service 
of  music  to  be  jilayed  before  you  enter  upon 
him.  But  he  brings  his  music,  to  which, 
who  listens,  had  need  bring  docile  thoughts, 
and  purged  ears. 

Winter  evenings — the  world  shut  out — 
with  less  of  ceremony  the  gentle  Shake- 
speare enters.  At  such  a  season,  the  Tem- 
pest, or  his  own  Winter's  Tale — 


^Ut  W^^t  mmp  ot  min,  31 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading 
aloud — to  yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some 
single  person  listening.  ]\Iore  than  one — • 
and  it  degenerates  into  an  audience. 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for 
incidents,  are  for  the  eye  to  glide  over  only. 
It  will  not  do  to  read  them  out.  I  could 
never  listen  to  even  the  better  kind  of  mod- 
ern novels  without  extreme  irksomeness. 

A  newspaper,  read  out,  is  intolerable.  In 
some  of  the  bank  offices  it  is  the  custom  (to 
save  so  much  individual  time)  for  one  of  the 
clerks — who  is  the  best  scholar — to  com- 
mence upon  the  Times,  or  the  C/wonicle,  and 
recite  its  entire  contents  aloud,  /)rr>  bono  pub- 
lico. With  every  advantage  of  lungs  and 
elocution,  the  effect  is  singularly  vapid.  In 
barbers'  shops  and  public-liouses  a  fellow 
will  get  up  and  spell  out  a  paragraph,  which 
lie  communicates  as  some  discovery.  ^Vn- 
other  follows  with  /lis  selection.  So  the 
entire  journal  transpires  at  length  by  piece- 
meal. Seldom-readers  are  slow  readers,  and 
without  this  expedient,  no  one  in  the  com- 
pany would  probably  ever  travel  through 
the  contents  of  a  whole  paper. 

Newspapers  always  excite  curiosity.  iSTo 
one  ever  lays  one  down  without  a  feeling  of 
disappointment. 

What  an  eternal  time  that  gentleman  in 
black,  at  Xando's,  keeps  the  paper  !  I  am 
sick  of  hearing  the  waiter  bawling  out  inces- 
santly, "  The  Chronicle  is  in  hand,  sir." 


32  ZU  iTa^t  d^^^nxp  0f  min. 


Coming  into  an  inn  at  night — having  or- 
dered your  supper — what  can  be  more  de- 
lightful than  to  tind  lying  in  the  Avindow- 
seat,  left  there  time  out  of  mind  by  the  care- 
lessness of  some  former  guest, — twaor  three 
numbers  of  the  old  Town  and  Country  Maga- 
zine, with  its  amusing  Ute-a-ttte  pictures — 

"  The  Royal  Lover  and  Lady  G ;  "  "  The 

Melting  Platonic  and  the  old  Beau,'' — and 
such-like  antiquated  scandal  ?  Would  you 
exchange  it — at  that  time,  and  in  that  i^lace 
■ — for  a  better  book  ? 

Poor  Tobin,  who  latterly  fell  blind,  did 
not  regret  it  so.  much  for  the  weightier  kinds 
of  reading — the  Paradise  JLost,  or  Comus, 
he  could  have  read  to  him — but  ho  missed 
the  pleasure  of  skimming  over  v.'ith  his  own 
eye  a  magazine,  or  a  light  pamphlet. 

I  should  not  care  to  be  caught  in  the  seri- 
ous avenues  of  some  cathedral  alone,  and 
reading  Candid-^. 

I  do  not  remember  a  more  whimsical  sur- 
prise than  having  been  once  detected — by  a- 
familiar  damsel — reclined  at  my  ease  upon 
the  grass,  on  Primrose  Hill  (her  Cythera), 
reading  Pamela.  Tliere  Vv'as  nothing  in  the 
book  to  make  a  man  seriously  ashamed  at 
the  exposure  ;  but  as  she  seated  herself 
down  by  me,  and  seemed  determined  to  read 
in  company,  I  could  have  wished  it  had  been 
— any  other  book.  We  read  on  very  sociably 
for  a  few  pages  ;  and,  not  finding  the  au- 
thor muoli  to  her  taste,  she  got  up,  and — 


®he  ^n^i  (^^mp  of  miix.         33 

went  away.  Gentle  casuist,  I  leave  it  to  thee 
to  conjecture,  whether  tlie  blush  (for  there 
was  one  between  us)  was  the  property  of  the 
nymph  or  the  swain  in  this  dilemma.  From 
me  you  shall  never  get  the  secret. 

I  am  net  much  a  friend  to  out-of-doors 
reading.  I  cannot  settle  my  spirits  to  it.  I 
knew  a  Unitarian  minister,  who  was  gener- 
ally to  be  seen  upon  Snow  Tlill  (as  yet  Skin- 
ner's Street  teas  not),  between  the  hours  of 
ten  and  eleven  in  the  morning,  studying  a 
volume  of  Lardner.  I  own  this  to  have  been 
a  strain  of  abstraction  beyond  my  reach.  I 
used  to  admire  how  he  sidled  along,  keeping 
clear  of  secular  contacts.  An  illiterate  en- 
counter with  a  porter's  knot,  or  a  bread-bas- 
ket, Avould  have  quickly  i)ut  to  flight  all  the 
theology  I  am  master  of,  and  have  left  me 
worse  than  indifferent  to  the  hvQ  points. 

There  is  a  class  of  street-readers,  whom  I 
can  never  contemplate  without  affection — 
tlie  poor  gentry,  who,  not  having  where- 
withal to  buy  or  hire  a  book,  filch  a  little 
learning  at  the  open  stalls — the  owner, 
with  his  hard  eye,  casting  envious  looks  at 
them  all  the  while,  and  thinking  when  they 
will  have  done.  Venturing  tenderly,  page 
after  page,  expecting  eveiy  moment  Avhen 
he  shall  interpose  his  interdict,  and  yet  un- 
able to  deny  themselves  the  gratification, 

they  "  snatch  a  fearful  joy."     Martin  V> , 

in  this  Avay,  by  daily  fragments,  got  through 

two  volumes  of  Clarissa,  when  the  stall- 

3 


keeper  damped  his  laudable  ambition,  by 
asking  him  (it  was  in  his  younger  days) 
whether  he  meant  to  purchase  the  work. 
M.  declares,  that  under  no  circumstances  in 
his  life  did  he  ever  peruse  a  book  with  half 
the  satisfaction  which  he  took  in  those 
uneasy  snatches.  A  quaint  poetess  of  our 
day  has  moralized  upon  this  subject  iu  two 
very  touching  but  homely  stanzas. 

I  saw  a  boy  with  eager  eye 
Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 
And  read,  as  he'd  devour  it  all; 
Wliicli  when  tlie  stall-uiau  did  espy, 
Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 
"  Yon,  sir,  yon  never  buy  a  book. 
Therefore  in  one  yon  shall  not  look." 
The  boy  pass'd  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  wish'd  he  never  had  been  taught  to  read, 
Then  of  the  old   churl's  books  he  should  have  had 
no  need. 

Of  sufferings  the  poor  have  many, 

Which  never  can  the  rich  annoy  : 

I  soon  perceived  another  boy. 

Who  look'd  as  if  he  had  not  any 

Food — for  that  day  at  least, — enjoy 

The  sight  of  cold  meat  in  a  tavern  larder, 

Tliis  boy's  case,  then  thought  I,  is  surely  harder, 

Thus  hungry,  longing,  thus  without  a  penny, 

Beholdina;  choice  of  dainty-dressed  meat: 

No  wonder  if  he  wished  lie  ne'er  had  learn' d  to  eat. 


mu  i:a,^t  (^$m^  o^  c^^a.       35 


Stage  Illusion. 

A  PLAY  is  said  to  be  well  or  ill  acted,  in 
proportion  to  the  scenical  illusion  produced. 
Whether  such  illusion  can  in  any  case  be 
perfect,  is  not  the  question.  The  nearest 
approach  to  it,  we  are  told,  is  when  the  actor 
appears  wholly  unconscious  of  the  presence 
of  spectators.  In  tragedy — in  all  which  is 
to  affect  the  feelings — this  undivided  atten- 
tion to  his  stage  business  seems  indispen- 
sable. Yet  it  is,  in  fact,  dispensed  with 
everyday  by  our  cleverest  tragedians;  and 
while  these  references  to  an  audience,  in  the 
shape  of  rant  of  sentiment,  are  not  too  fre- 
quent or  palpable,  a  sufficient  quantity  of 
illusion  for  the  purposes  of  dramatic  interest 
may  be  said  to  be  produced  in  spite  of  them. 
But,  tragedy  apart,  it  may  be  inquired 
whether,  in  certain  characters  in  comedy, 
especially  those  which  are  a  little  extrava- 
gant, or  which  involve  some  notion  repugnant 
to  the  moral  sense,  it  is  not  a  proof  of  the 
highest  skill  in  the  comedian  when,  with- 
out absolutely  appealing  to  an  audience,  he 
keeps  up  a  tacit  understanding  with  them, 
and  makes  them,   unconsciously  to   them- 


36         ©he  p!St  (£^m^  0^  ^na. 


selves,  a  part}'-  in  the  scene.  The  utmost 
nicety  is  required  in  the  mode  of  doing  this ; 
but  we  speak  only  of  the  great  artists  in. 
the  profession. 

The  most  mortifying  infirmitj'-  in  human 
nature,  to  feel  in  ourselves,  or  to  contemplate 
in  another,  is  perhaj^s,  cowardice.  To  see  a 
coward  done  to  the  life  upon  a  stage  would 
produce  anything  hut  mirth.  Yet  w^e  most 
of  us  remember  Jack  Bannister's  cowards. 
Could  anything  be  more  agreeable,  more 
pleasant  ?  We  loved  the  rogues.  How  was 
this  effected  but  by  the  exquisite  art  of  the 
actor  in  a  perpetual  sub-insinuation  to  us, 
the  spectators,  even  in  the  extremity  of  the 
shaking  lit,  that  he  was  not  half  such  a 
coward  as  we  took  him  for  ?  We  saw  all 
the  common  symptoms  of  the  malady  uj)on 
him  ;  the  quivering  lip,  the  cowering  knees, 
the  teeth  chattering;  and  could  have  sworn 
"  that  man  was  frightened."  But  we  forgot 
all  the  while — or  kept  it  almost  a  secret  to 
ourselves — that  he  never  once  lost  his  self- 
jDossession ;  that  he  let  out  by  a  thousand 
droll  looks  and  gestures — meant  at  us^  and 
not  at  all  supposed  to  be  visible  to  his  fel- 
lows in  the  scene,  that  his  confidence  in  his 
own  resources  had  never  once  deserted  him. 
Was  this  a  genuine  picture  of  a  coward  ?  or 
not  rather  a  likeness,  which  the  clever  artist 
contrived  to  palm  upon  us  instead  of  an 
original ;  while  we  secretly  connived  at  the 
delusion  for  the  purpose  of  greater  pleasure^ 


^lAt  fa^t  (^n^mp  ot  mm,         37 


than  a  more  genuine  counterfeiting  of  the 
imbecility,  helplessness,  and  utter  self-deser- 
tion, which  we  know  to  be  concomitants  of 
cowardice  in  real  life,  could  have  given  us  ? 

Why  are  misers  so  hateful  in  the  world, 
and  so  endurable  on  the  stage,  but  because 
the  skillful  actor,  by  a  sort  of  sub-reference, 
rather  than  direct  appeal  to  us,  disarms  the 
character  of  a  great  deal  of  its  odiousness, 
by  seeming  to  engage  o?/?*  compassion  for  the 
insecure  tenure  by  which  he  holds  his  money- 
bags and  parchments '?  By  this  subtle  vent 
half  of  tlie  hatef  ulness  of  the  character — the 
self-closeness  with  which  in  real  life  it  coils 
itself  up  from  the  sympathies  of  men- 
evaporates.  The  miser  becomes  sympa- 
thetic ;  i.  e.,  is  no  genuine  miser.  Here  again 
a  diverting  likeness  is  substituted  for  a  very 
disagreeable  reality. 

Spleen,  irritability — the  pitiable  infirmities 
of  old  men,  which  produce  only  pain  to  be- 
hold in  the  realities,  counterfeited  upon  a 
stage,  divert  not  altogether  for  the  comic  ap- 
pendages to  them,  but  in  part  from  an  inner 
conviction  that  they  are  bei/tf/  acted  before 
us  ;  that  a  likeness  only  is  going  on,  and  not 
the  thing  itself.  They  please  by  being  done 
under  the  life, or  beside  it;  not  to  tlie  life. 
When  Gattie  acts  an  old  man,  is  he  angry 
indeed?  or  only  a  pleasant  counterfeit,  jast 
enough  of  a  likeness  to  recognize,  without 
pressing  upon  us  the  uneasy  sense  of  a  re- 
ality. 


38  mt  ^n^t  (t$$^\p  of  mm. 


Comedians,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem^ 
may  be  too  natural.  It  AA-as  the  case  with  a 
late  actor.  Notliing  could  be  more  earnest 
or  true  than  the  manner  of  Mr.  Emery; 
this  told  excellently  in  his  Tyke,  and  charac- 
ters of  a  tragic  cast.  But  when  he  carried 
the  same  rigid  exclusiveness  of  attention  to 
the  stage  business,  and  wilful  blindness  and 
oblivion  of  everything  before  the  curtain  in- 
to his  comed}^,  it  produced  a  harsh  and  dis- 
sonant effect.  He  was  out  of  keeping  Avith 
the  rest  of  the  Persoiue  Dnanatis.  There 
was  as  little  link  between  him  and  them,  as 
betwixt  himself  and  the  audience.  He  was- 
a  third  estate,  dry,  repulsive,  and  unsocial 
to  all.  Individually  considered,  his  execu- 
tion w"as  masterly.  But  comedy  is  not  this- 
unbending  thing ;  for  this  reason,  that  tlie 
same  degree  of  credibility  is  not  required  of 
it  as  to  serious  scenes.  The  degrees  of  credi- 
bility demanded  to  the  Xwo  things,  may  b& 
illustrated  by  the  different  sort  of  truth 
which  we  expect  wlien  a  man  tells  us  a 
mournful  or  a  merry  story.  If  we  suspect 
the  former  of  falsehood  in  any  one  tittle,  we 
reject  it  altogether.  Our  tears  refuse  to 
flow  at  a  suspected  imposition.  But  the 
teller  of  a  mirthful  tale  has  latitude  allowed 
him.  "We  are  content  with  less  than  abso- 
lute truth.  'Tis  the  same  with  dramatic 
illusion.  "We  confess  we  love  in  comedy  to 
see  an  audience  naturalized  behind  the 
scenes,  taken  into  the  interest  of  the  drama, 


WU  miA$t  (^.o'saM,^  0f  (glia.  39 


welcomed  as  by-standers  however.  There 
is  something  ungracious  in  a  comic  actor 
holding  himself  aloof  from  all  participation 
or  concern  with  those  who  are  come  to  be 
diverted  by  him.  Macbeth  must  see  the 
dagger,  and  no  ear  but  his  own  to  be  told  of 
it ;  but  an  old  fool  in  farce  may  think  he  sees 
somet/tiJi</,  and  by  conscious  A^'ords  and  looks 
express  it,  as  plainly  as  he  can  speak,  to  pit, 
box,  and  gallery.  When  an  impertinent  in 
tragedy,  an  Osric,  for  instance,  breaks  in 
upon  the  serious  passions  of  the  scene,  we 
approve  of  the  contempt  with  which  he  is 
treated.  But  when  the  pleasant  imperti- 
nent of  comedy,  in  a  piece  purely  meant  to 
give  delight,  and  raise  mirth  out  of  whimsical 
perplexities,  worries  the  studious  man  with 
taking  up  liis  leisure,  or  making  his  house 
his  home,  the  same  sort  of  contempt  ex- 
pressed (however  natural)  would  destroy  the 
balance  of  delight  in  the  spectators.  To 
make  the  intrusion  comic,  the  actor  who 
plaj's  the  annoyed  man  must  a  little  desert 
nature  ;  he  nuist,  in  short,  be  tbinking  of  the 
audience,  and  express  only  so  much  dissatis- 
faction and  peevishness  as  is  consistent  with 
the  pleasure  of  comedy.  In  other  words, 
his  perplexity  must  seenio  half  put  on.  If 
he  repel  the  intruder  with  the  sober  set  face 
of  a  man  in  earnest,  and  more  especially  if 
he  deliver  his  expostulations  in  a  tone  which 
in  the  world  nnist  necessarily  provoke  a 
duel;  his  real-lifo  manner  will  destroy  the 


40  ©he  'gm  (^^m^  of  ®lia. 


whimsical  and  jjurely  dramatic  existence  of 
the  other  cliaracter  (whicli  to  render  it  comic 
demands  an  antagonist  comicality  on  the 
part  of  the  character  opposed  to  it),  and  con- 
vert \vhi),t  was  meant  for  mirth,  rather  than, 
belief,  into  a  downright  piece  of  impertinence 
indeed,  which  would  raise  no  diA-ersion  in 
us,  but  rather  stir  pain,  to  see  inflicted  in 
earnest  upon  any  unworthy  person.  A  very 
judicious  actor  (in  most  of  his  parts)  seems 
to  have  fallen  into  an  error  of  this  sort  in 
his  playing  with  JMr.  Wrench  in  the  farce  of 
Free  and  Easy. 

Many  instances  would  be  tedious ;  these 
may  suffice  to  show  that  comic  acting  at 
least  does  not  always  demand  from  the  per- 
former that  strict  abstraction  from  all  refer- 
ence to  an  audience  wdiich  is  exacted  of  it ; 
but  that  in  some  cases  a  sort  of  compro- 
mise may  take  place,  and  all  the  purposes  of 
dramatic  delight  be  attained  by  a  judicious 
understanding,  not  too  openly  announced, 
between  the  ladies  and  gentleinen — ou  both 
sides  of  the  curtaan. 


m^  fasit  (f^^aijis  of  mm,  41 


To  the  Shade  of  Elliston. 

JoYOusEST  of  once  embodied  spirits, 
whither  at  lengtli  hast  tliou  flown  ?  to  what 
genial  region  are  we  permitted  to  conjecture 
that  thou  hast  flitted  ? 

Art  tliou  sowing-  tliy  wild  oats  yet  (the 
harvest  time  was  still  to  come  with  thee) 
upon  casual  sands  of  Avernus  ?  or  art  thou 
enacting  Rover  (as  we  would  giadlier  think) 
by  wandering-  Elysian  streams  ? 

This  mortal  frame,  while  thou  didst  play 
thy  brief  antics  amongst  us  was  in  truth  any- 
thing but  a  prison  to  thee,  as  the  vain  Pla- 
tonist  dreams  of  this  bodi/  to  be  no  better 
than  a  county  jail,  forsooth,  or  some  house 
of  durance  vile,  whereof  the  live  senses  are 
the  fetters.  Thou  knewest  better  than  to 
be  in  a  hurry  to  cast  off  those  gyves ;  and 
had  notice  to  quit,  I  fear,  before  thou  werfc 
quite  ready  to  abandon  this  fleslily  tenement. 
It  was  thy  Pleasure  House,  thy  Palace  of 
Dainty  Devices ;  thy  Louvre,  or  thy  AVhite- 
hall. 

"What  new  mysterious  lodgings  dost  thou 
tenant  now  ?  or  when  may  we  expect  thy 
aerial  house-warmin":  ? 


42  ©he  ^asit  (g,s.$'aysi  of  (^Ua. 


Tartarus  we  know,  and  we  have  read  of 
the  Blessed  Shades  ;  now  can  not  I  intelli- 
gibly fancy  thee  in  either. 

It  is  too  much  to  hazard  a  conjecture,  that 
(as  the  schoolmen  admitted  a  receptacle 
apart  for  Patriarchs  and  un-chrisom  babes) 
there  may  exist — not  far  perchance  from 
that  storehouse  of  all  vanities,  which  Mil- 
ton saw  in  vision — a  Luruo  somewhere  for 
Playees  ?  and  that 

Up  thither  like  aerial  vapors  fly 

Both  all  Stage  things,  and  all  that  in  Stage  things 

Built  their  fond  hopes  of  glory  or  lasting  fame  ? 

All  the  unaccomplished  works  of  Authors'  hands, 

Aboil  ire,  monstrous,  or  unkindly  mixed, 

Damn'd  mon  earth,  fleet  tliither — 

Play,  Opera,  Farce,  ■\vitli  all  their  trumpery. 

There,  by  the  neig-hboring  moon  (by  some 
not  improperly  supposed  thylleg-ent  Planet 
upon  earth),  mayst  thou  not  still  be  acting- 
thy  managerial  pranks,  great  disembodied 
Lessee '?  but  Lessee  still,  and  still  a  manager. 

In  Greenrooms,  impervious  to  mortal 
eye,  the  muse  beholds  thee  wielding  post- 
humous empire. 

Thin  ghosts  of  Figurantes  (never  plump  on 
earth)  circle  thee  in  endlessly,  and  still  their 
song  is  I-'te  on  sinful  Fantasy ! 

3Iagnificent  were  thy  capriccios  on  this 
globe  of  earth,  lioBERT  William  Ellistox! 
for  as  yet  we  know  not  thy  new  name  in 
heaven. 

It  irks  me  to  think,  that,  stript  of  thy 


m\t  ^n^i  (^^mp  ot  mvA,  4S 


I'egalities,  thoii  shouldst  ferry  over,  a  poor 
ibrked  shade,  in  crazy  Stygian  wherry.  Me- 
thmks  I  hear  the  old  boatman,  padcUing  by 
the  weedy  wharf,  with  raucid  voice,  bawl- 
ing "  Sculls,  Sculls  ; "  to  which,  with 
waving  hand,  and  majestic  action,  tliou 
(leignest  no  reply,  other  than  in  two  curt 
monosyllables,  "  No ;  Oars." 

But  the  laws  of  Pluto's  kingdom  know 
small  difference  between  king  and  cobbler, 
manager  and  callboy ;  and,  if  haply  your 
dates  of  life  were  conterminant,  you  are 
<|uietly  taking  your  passage,  cheek  by  cheek 
]0  ignoble  leveling  of  Death)  with  the  shade 
of  some  recently  departed  candle-snuffer. 

Cut  mercy!  what  strippings,  what  tear- 
ing off  of  histrionic  robes,  and  private  van- 
ities !  what  denudations  to  the  bone,  before 
lihe  surly  Ferryman  will  admit  you  to  set  a 
foot  within  his  battered  lighter. 

Crowns,  scepters ;  shield,  sword,  and 
truncheon ;  thy  own  coronation  robes  (for 
thou  hast  brought  the  Avhole  property-man's 
wardrobe  with  thee,  enough  to  sink  a 
navy) ;  the  judge's  ermine ;  the  coxcomb's 
wig  ;  the  snuff-box  a  la  J^oppinf/fon, — all 
must  overboard,  he  positively  swears, — and 
that  ancient  jNIariner  brooks  no  denial ;  for, 
since  the  tiresome  monodrame  of  the  old 
Thracian  Ilarpei',  Charon,  it  is  to  be  believed 
hath  shown  small  taste  for  theatricals. 

Ay,  now  'tis  done.  You  are  jut;t  boat- 
weight  ;  pura  etj^ata  anima. 


44         ®hc  iia^t  €^^mp  of  min. 

But  bless  me,  how  little  you  look ! 

So  shall  we  all  look — kings  and  kaisers — 
stripped  for  the  last  voyage. 

But  the  murky  rogue  pushes  off.  Adieu, 
pleasant,  and  thrice  pleasant  shade !  with 
my  parting  thanks  for  many  a  heavy  hour 
of  life  lightened  by  thy  harmless  extrava- 
ganzas, public  or  domestic. 

Rhadamanthus,  wlio  tries  the  lighter 
causes  below,  leaving  to  his  two  brethren 
the  heavy  calendars, — honest  Rhadamanth, 
always  partial  to  players,  weighing  their 
parti-colored  existence  here  upon  earth, — 
making  account  of  the  few  foibles,  that  may 
have  shaded  thy  real  life,  as  "we  call  it 
(though,  substantially,  scarcely  less  a  vapor 
than  thy  idlest  vagaries  upon  the  boards  of 
Drury),  as  but  of  so  many  echoes,  natural 
repercussions,  and  results  to  be  expected 
from  the.  assumed  extravagances  of  thy 
seco7idar)/  or  mock  life,  nightly  upon  a 
stage, — after  a  lenient  castigation,  with  rods 
lighter  than  of  those  Medusean  ringlets, 
but  just  enough  to  "Avhip  the  offending 
Adam  out  of  thee,"  shall  courteously  dis- 
miss thee  at  the  right-hand  gate — the  o.  p. 
side  of  Hades — that  conducts  to  mask  and 
merry-makings  in  the  Theater  lioyai  of 
Proserxaine. 

PLAUDITO,    ET    VALETQ. 


®bc  l^a.st  (gsi.^aasi  of  ©Wa.         45 


Ellistoniana. 

Mt  acquaintance  with  the  plensant  creat- 
ure, whose  loss  we  all  deplore,  was  but 
slight. 

My  first  introduction  to  E.,  which  after- 
wards ripened  into  an  acquaintance  a  little 
on  this  side  of  intimacj'',  was  over  a  counter 
in  the  Leamington  Spa  Library,  then  newly 
entered  u])on  by  a  branch  of  his  family.     E., 

whom  nothing  misbecame to  auspicate,. 

I  suppose,  the  filial  concern,  and  set  it 
agoing  with  a  luster, — was  serving  in  per- 
son two  damsels  fair,  who  had  come  into 
the  shop  ostensibly  to  inquire  for  some  new 
publication,  but  in  reality  to  have  a  sight 
of  the  illustrious  shopman,  hoping  some 
conference.  With  what  an  air  did  he  reach 
down  the  volume,  dispassionately  giving 
his  opinion  of  the  worth  of  the  work  in 
question,  and  launching  out  into  a  disserta- 
tion on  its  comparative  merits  with  those 
of  certain  publications  of  a  similar  stamp, 
its  rivals !  his  enchanted  customers  fairly 
hanging  on  his  lips,  subdued  to  their  au- 
thoritative sentence.  So  have  I  seen  a  gen- 
tleman in  comedy  actuuj  the  shopman.     So 


46  She  ITa^t  (i!5\o'ay.$  ot  (Slia. 


Lovelace  sold  his  gloves  in  King  Street.  I 
admired  the  histrionic  art,  by  which  he 
contrived  to  carry  clean  away  every  notion 
of  disgrace  from  the  occupation  he  had  so 
generously  submitted  to  ;  and  from  that 
hour  I  judged  him,  with  no  after  repent- 
ance ,  to  be  a  person  with  whom  it  would 
be  a  felicity  to  be  more  acquainted. 

To  descant  upon  his  merits  as  a  Come- 
dian would  be  superfluous.  With  his  blend- 
ed private  and  professional  habits  alone  I 
have  to  do ;  that  harmonious  fusion  of  the 
manners  of  the  player  into  those  of  every- 
day life,  which  brought  the  stage  boards 
into  streets,  and  dining-parlors,  and  kept 
up  the  play  when  the  play  was  ended.  "  I 
like  Wrench,"  a  friend  was  saying  to  him 
one  day,  "  because  he  is  the  same,  natural, 
easy  creature,  on  the  stage,  that  he  is  -  o/T." 
"  My  case  exactly,"  retorted  Elliston, — with 
a  charming  forgetfulness,  that  the  con- 
verse of  a  proposition  does  not  always  lead 
to  the  same  conclusion, — "  I  am  the  same 
person  q^'the  stage  that  lam  o^h"  The  in- 
ference, at  first  sight,  seems  identical ;  but 
examine  it  a  little,  and  it  confesses  only, 
that  the  one  performer  was  never,  and  the 
other  always,  acting. 

And  in  truth  this  was  the  charm  of  Ellis- 
ton's  private  deportment.  You  had  spir- 
ited performance  always  going  on  before 
your  eyes,  with  nothing  to  pay.  As  where 
a  monarch  takes  up  his  casual  abode  for  a 


^Ut  p^t  dz^mp  of  mi^,  47 

night,  the  poorest  hovel  which  he  honors 
by  his  sleeping  in  it,  becomes  ipso  facto  for 
that  time  a  palace ;  so  wherever  EUiston 
walked,  sat,  or  stood  still,  there  was  the 
theater.  He  carried  about  with  him  his 
pit,  boxes,  and  galleries,  and  set  up  his 
portable  playhouse  at  corners  of  streets, 
and  in  the  market-places.  Upon  flintiest 
pavements  he  trod  the  boards  still ;  and  if 
his  theme  chanced  to  be  passionate,  the 
green  baize  carpet  of  tragedy  spontaneously 
rose  beneath  his  feet.  Now  this  was  hearty, 
and  showed  a  love  for  his  art.  So  Apelles 
alicai/s  painted — in  thought.  So  G.  D.  al- 
ways  poetizes.  I  hate  a  lukewarm  artist. 
I  have  known  actors — and  some  of  them 
of  Elliston's  own  stamp — who  shall  have 
agreeably  been  amusing  you  in  the  part  of 
a  rake  or  a  coxcomb,  through  the  two  or 
three  hours  of  their  dramatic  existence ;  but 
no  sooner  does  the  curtain  fall  with  its  leaden 
clatter,  but  a  spirit  of  lead  seems  to  seize 
on  all  their  faculties.  They  emerge  sour, 
morose  persons,  intolerable  to  their  families, 
servants,  etc.  Another  shall  have  been  ex- 
panding your  heart  with  generous  deeds 
and  sentiments,  till  it  even  beats  with  yearn- 
ings of  universal  sympathy  ;  you  absolute- 
ly long  to  go  home  and  do  some  good  ac- 
tion. The  play  seems  tedious,  till  you  can 
get  fairly  out  of  the  house,  and  realize  your 
laudable  intentions.  At  length  the  final 
.bell  rings,  and  this  cordial  representative 


48  ^ht  p^t  (i^mp  Of  (glia. 


of  all  that  is  amiable  in  human  breastg; 
steps  forth — a  miser.  Elliston  was  more 
of  a  piece.  Did  he  plaj/  Ranger  ?  and  did 
Ranger  fill  the  gener;d  bosom  of  the  town 
with  satisfaction?  whj^  should  he  not  be 
Ranger,  and  diffuse  the  same  cordial  satis- 
faction among  his  private  circles  ?  with  his 
temperament,  his  animal  spirits,  his  good- 
nature, his  follies  perchance,  could  he  do  bet- 
ter than  identify  himself  with  his  imper- 
sonation ?  Are  we  to  like  a  pleasant  rake,  or 
coxcomb,  on  the  stage,  and  give  ourselves 
airs  of  aversion  for  the  identical  character, 
presented  to  us  in  actual  life  ?  or  what 
would  the  performer  have  gained  by  divest- 
mg  himself  of  the  impersonation  ?  Could 
the  man  Elliston  have  been  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  his  part,  even  if  he  had  avoided 
to  reflect  to  us  studiouslj^  in  private  cir- 
cles, the  airy  briskness,  the  forwardness, 
and  scape-goat  trickeries  of  his  prototype  ? 

"  But  there  is  something  not  natural  in 
this  everlasting  acting ;  we  want  the  real 
man." 

Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  the  man 
himself,  whom  you  cannot,  or  will  not  see, 
under  some  adventitious  trappings,  which, 
nevertheless,  sit  not  at  all  inconsistently 
upon  him  ?  What  if  it  is  the  nature  of  some 
men  to  be  highly  artificial?  The  fault  is 
least  reprehensible  in  pk/}/ers.  Cibber  was 
his  own  Foppington,  with  almost  as  much 
wit  as  Vanbrugh  could  add  to  it. 


"My  conceit  of  his  person," — it  is  Ben 
Jonson  speaking  of  Lord  Bacon, — "was 
never  increased  towards  him  by  his  place  or 
honors.  But  I  have,  and  do  reverence  him 
for  tlie  greatness  that  was  only  proper  to 
himself ;  in  that  he  seemed  to  me  ever  one 
of  the  greatest  men,  that  had  been  in  many 
ages.  In  his  adversity  I  ever  prayed  that 
Heaven  would  give  him  strength  ;  for  great- 
ness he  could  not  want." 

The  quality  here  commended  was  scarcely 
less  conspicuous  in  the  subject  of  these  idle 
reminiscences  than  in  my  Lord  Yerulam» 
Those  who  have  imagined  that  an  unex- 
pected elevation  to  the  direction  of  a  great 
London  Theater  affected  the  consequence  of 
ElUston,  or  at  all  changed  his  nature,  knew 
not  the  essential  greatness  of  the  man  whom 
they  disparage.  It  was  my  fortune  to 
encounter  him  near  St.  Dunstan's  Church 
(which,  with  its  punctual  giants,  is  now  no 
more  tlian  dust  and  a  shadow),  on  the  morn- 
ing of  his  election  to  that  high  office.  Grasp- 
ing my  hand  with  a  look  of  significance,  he 
only  uttered, — "  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 
— then,  with  another  look  following  up  the 
blow,  he  subjoined,  "  I  am  the  future  Man- 
ager of  Drury  Lane  Theater."  Breathless  as 
he  saw  me,  he  stayed  not  for  congratulation 
or  reply,  but  mutely  stalked  away,  leaving 
me  to  chew  upon  his  new-blown  digni- 
ties at  leisure.  In  fact,  nothing  could  be 
said  to  it.  Expressive  silence  alone  could 
4 


50  (The  Xa,^t  c:\^.oan,5i  of  ©Ua. 


muse  his  praise.  Tliis  was  in  his  <7?ra« 
style. 

But  was  he  less  great  (be  witness,  O  ye 
Powers  of  Equanimity,  that  supported  in 
the  ruins  of  Carthage  the  consular  exile,  and 
more  recently  transmuted,  for  a  more  illus- 
trious exile  the  barren  constableship  of  Elba 
into  an  image  of  Imperial  France)  when,  in 
melancholy  after  years,  again,  much  near 
the  same  spot,  I  met  him,  when  that  scepter 
had  been  ■\\'rested  from  his  hand,  and  his 
dominion  was  curtailed  to  the  petty  mana- 
gership, and  part  proprietorship,  of  the  small 
Olympic,  his  Llha  ?  He  still  played  nightly 
upon  the  boards  of  Drury,  but  in  parts., 
alas  !  allotted  to  him,  not  magnificently 
distributed  by  him.  "Waiving  his  great  loss 
as  nothing,  and  magnificently  sinking  the 
sense  of  fallen  «^«?t;vV// grandeur  in  the  more 
liberal  resentment  of  depreciations  done  tc> 
his  more  lofty  /;^/e^/ec^«f a/ pretensions,  "  Have 
you  heard,"  (his  customary  exordium) — 
"  have  you  heard,"  said  he,  "  how  they  treat 
me?  they  put  me  in  comedy.'''  Thought  I 
• — but  his  finger  on  his  lips  forbade  any 
verbal  interruption  —  "  where  could  they 
have  put  you  better  ?  "  Then  after  a  pause — 
"  "Where  ]«  formerly  played  Iiomeo,  I  now 
play  Mercutio," — and  so  again  he  stalked 
away,  neither  staying,  nor  caring  for,  re- 
sponses. 

O,  it  was  a  rich  scene,^3ut  Sir  A • 

C — — ,  the  best  of  story-tellers  and  surgeons, 


^'ht  i:a.st  (^^^n\p  0f  min,         51 


who  mends  a  lame  narrative  almost  as  well 
as  he  sets  a  fracture,  alone  could  do  justice 
to  it,  that  I  was  a  witness  to,  in  the  tarnished 
room  (that  iiad  once  been  green)  of  that  same 
little  Olympic.  There,  after  his  deposition 
from  Imperiul  Drury,  he  substituted  a 
throne.  That  Olympic  Hill  was  his  '  hii^hest 
heaven;"  himself  "Jove  in  his  chair." 
There  he  sat  in  state,  while  before  him,  on 
complaint  of  prompter,  was  brought  for 
judgment— how  shall  I  describe  her  ? — one 
of  thos.e  little  tawdry  things  that  flirt  at  the 
tails  of  choruses — a  probationer  for  the  town, 
in  either  of  its  senses — the  pertest  little  drab 
• — a  dirty  fringe  and  appendage  of  the  lamps' 
smoke — who,  it  seems,  on  some  disapproba- 
tion expressed  by  a  "highly  respectable" 
audience, — had  precipitately  quitted  her 
station  on  the  boards,  and  withdrawn  her 
small  talents  in  disgust. 

"  And  how  dare  you,"  said  her  manager, — 
assuming  a  censoi-ial  severity,  which  would 
have  crushed  the  confidence  of  a  Yestris, 
and  disarmed  that  beautiful  Rebel  herself  of 
her  professional  caprices, — I  verily  believe, 
he  thought  /ler  standing  before  him, — "  how 
dare  you.  Madam,  withdraw  yourself,  .with- 
out a  notice  from  your  theatrical  duties?" 
"I  was  hissed,  sir."  "  And  you  have  the 
presumption  to  decide  upon  the  taste  of  the 
town?"  "I  don't  know  that,  sir,  but  Twill 
never  stand  to  be  hissed,"  was  the  sul)joinder 
of  young-  Confidence, — when  gathering  up 


52  ®h«  fa.^t  (g^!&ay,^  of  mm. 

his  features  into  one  significant  mass  of 
wonder,  pity,  and  expos tulatoi-y  indignation 
— in  a  lesson  never  to  have  been  lost  upon  a 
creature  less  forward  than  she  who  stood 
before  him, — his  words  were  these  :  "  They 
have  hissed  w^e." 

'Twas  the  identical  argument  a  fortiori., 
which  the  son  of  Peleus  uses  to  Lycaon 
trembling  under  his  lance,  to  persuade  him 
to  take  his  destiny  with  a  good  grace.  "  I 
too  am  mortal."  And  it  is  to  be  believed 
that  in  both  cases  the  rhetoric  missed  of  its 
application,  for  want  of  a  proper  under- 
standing with  the  faculties  of  the  respective 
recipients. 

"  Quite  an  Opera  pit,"  he  said  to  me,  as  he 
was  courteously  conducting  me  over  the 
benches  of  his  Surrey  Theatre,  the  last  re- 
treat, and  recess,  of  his  every-day  waning- 
grandeur. 

Those  who  knew  Elliston,  will  know  the 
manner  in  which  he  pronounced  the  latter 
sentence  of  the  few  A^'ords  I  am  about  to 
record.  One  proud  day  to  me  he  took  his 
roast  mutton  with  us  in  the  Temple,  to 
which  I  had  superadded  a  preliminary  had- 
dock. '  After  a  rather  plentiful  partaking  of 
the  meager  banquet,  not  unrefreshed  with, 
the  humbler  sort  of  liquors,  I  made  a  sort 
of  apology  for  the  humility  of  the  fare,  ob- 
serving that  for  my  own  part  I  never  ate 
but  one  dish  at  dinner.  "  I  too  never  eat 
but  one  thing  at  dinner," — was  his  reply, — • 


®1«  ITa.^t  ^,s'.si3i|.s  ot  miih         53 


then,  after  a  pause, — "  reckoning:  fish  as 
notliino-."  Tlie  manner  was  all.  It  was  as 
if  by  one  peremptory  sentence  he  had  decreed 
the  annihilation  of  all  the  savory  esculents, 
which  the  pleasant  and  nutritious  food-giv- 
ing Ocean  pours  forth  upon  poor  humans 
from  her  watery  bosom.  This  was  g7'eatness, 
tempered  with  considerate  tenderness  to  the 
feelings  of  his  scanty  but  welcoming  enter- 
tainer. 

Great  wert  thou  in  thy  life,  Kobert 
William  Elliston !  and  not  lessened  in  thy 
death,  if  report  speak  truly,  which  says  that 
thou  didst  direct  that  thy  mortal  remains 
should  repose  under  no  inscription  but  one 
of  pure  LatinUij.  Classical  was  thy  bring- 
ing up  !  and  beautiful  was  the  feeling  on 
thy  last  bed,  which,  connecting  the  man 
with  the  boy,  took  thee  back  to  thy  latest 
exercise  of  imagination,  to  the  days  when, 
undreaming  of  Theaters  and  Managers hi2)s, 
thou  wert  a  scholar,  and  an  early  ripe  one, 
under  the  roofs  builded  by  the  munificent 
and  pious  Colet.  For  thee  the  Pauline 
Muses  weep.  In  elegies,  that  shall  silence 
this  crude  prose,  they  shall  celebrate  thy 
praise. 


54  ehc  ^.v^t  (t-^^ma  of  (^.Ua» 


The  Old  Margate  Hoy. 

I  A:.r  fond  of  passing"  my  vacations  (I  be- 
lieve I  liave  said  so  before)  at  one  or  otlier  of 
tlie  Universities.  Xext  to  these  my  clioice 
would  fix  me  at  some  woody  spot,  sucli  as 
tlie  neigiiborliood  of  Henley  affords  in  abun- 
dance, on  the  banks  of  my  beloved  Thames. 
But  someliow  or  other  my  cousin  contrives 
to  wlieedle  me,  once  in  three  or  four  sea- 
sons, to  a  watering'-place.  Old  attachments 
bling  to  her  in  spite  of  experience.  We 
have  been  dull  at  Worthing  one  summer, 
duller  at  Brighton  anotlier,  dullest  at  East- 
bourne a  third,  and  are  at  this  moment  doing 
dreary  penance  at — Hastings  ! — and  all  be- 
cause vo  Averc  happy  many  years  ago  for  a 
brief  week  at  ]Margate.  That  was  our  first 
seaside  experiment,  and  many  circumstances 
combined  to  make  it  tlio  most  agreeable 
holiday  of  my  life.  We  had  neither  of  us 
seen  the  sea,  and  we  had  never  been  frOm 
home  so  long  together  in  company. 

Can  I  forget  thee,  thou  old  ]\Iargate  Hoy, 
with  thy  weather-beaten,  sunburnt  captain, 
and  his  rough  accommodations, — ill  ex- 
changed for  the  foppery  and  fresh-water 


(The  Pi.s.t  Cr.^.^ay-i'  of  (»:Ua.  55 


'  ceness  of  the  modern  steam-packet  ?  To 
the  M'iiids  and  waves  thou  committedst  thy 
goodly  freightage,  and  didst  ask  no  aid  of 
magic  fumes,  and  spells,  and  boiling  cal- 
drons. With  the  gales  of  heaven  thou  went- 
est  swimmingly ;  or,  when  it  Avas  their  pleas- 
ure, stoodest  still  v/itli  sailor-like  patience. 
Thy  course  was  natural,  not  forced  as  in  a 
hot-bed ;  nor  didst  thou  go  poisoning  the 
breath  of  ocean  with  sulphureous  smoke — 
a  great  sea  chimera,  chimneying  and  fur- 
nacing  the  deep ;  or  liker  to  that  fire  god 
parching  up  Scamander. 

Can  I  forget  thy  honest,  yet  slender  crew, 
with  their  coy  reluctant  responses  (yet  to 
the  suppression  of  anything  like  contempt) 
to  the  raw  questions,  which  we  of  the  great 
city  would  be  ever  and  anon  putting  to 
them,  as  to  the  uses  of  this  or  that  strange 
naval  implement?  'Specially  can  I  forget 
thee,  thou  happy  medium,  thou  shade  of 
refuge  between  us  and  them,  conciliating 
interpreter  of  their  skill  to  our  simplicity, 
comfortable  ambassador  between  sea  and 
land! — Avhose  sailor-trousers  did  not  more 
convincingly  assure  thee  to  be  an  adopted 
denizen  of  the  former,  than  thy  Avhite  cap, 
and  whiter  a]n'on  over  them,  with  thy  neat- 
figured  practice  in  thy  culinary  vocation, 
bespoke  thee  to  have  been  of  inland  nature 
heretofore — a  master  cook  of  Eastcheap? 
How  busily  didst  thou  ply  thy  multifarious 
occupation,  cook,  mariner,  attendant,  cham- 


56         ^u  Ea,$t  (^^^n\\^  of  #tia. 


berlain ;  here,  there,  like  another  Ariel, 
flaming  at  once  about  all  parts  of  the  deck, 
yet  witli  kindlier  ministrations, — not  to 
assist  the  tempest,  but,  as  if  touched  with 
a  kindred  sense  of  our  infirmities,  to  soothe 
the  qualms  whicli  that  untried  motion  might 
haply  raise  in  our  crude  land  fancies.  And 
when  theo'erwashing  billows  drove  us  below 
deck  (for  it  was  far  gone  in  October,  and 
we  had  stiff  and  blowing  weather),  how 
did  thy  officious  ministerings,  still  catering 
for  our  comfort,  witli  cards,  and  cordials 
and  thy  more  cordial  conversation,  alleviate 
the  closeness  and  the  confinement  of  thy  else 
{truth  to  say)  not  very  savory,  nor  very  invit- 
ing little  cabin  ? 

With  these  additaments  to  boot,  we  had 
on  board  a  fellow-passenger,  whose  discourse 
in  verity  might  have  beguiled  a  longer 
voyage  than  we  meditated,  and  have  made 
mirth  and  wonder  abound  as  far  as  the 
Azores.  He  was  a  dark,  Spanish-complex- 
ioned  young  man,  remarkably  handsome, 
Avith  an  officer-like  assurance,  and  an  insup- 
pressible  volubility  of  assertion.  lie  was, 
in  fact,  the  greatest  liar  I  had  met  with 
then,  or  since.  He  was  none  of  your  hesi- 
tating, half  story-tellers  (a  most  painful  de- 
scription of  mortals)  who  go  on  sounding 
your  belief,  and  only  giving  you  as  much  as 
they  see  you  can  swallow  at  a  time, — the 
nibbling  pick-pockets  of  your  patience, — but 
one    who   committed    downright,  daylight. 


depredations  upon  his  neighbor's  faith.  He 
did  not  stand  shivering  uiX)n  tlie  brink,  but 
was  a  hearty,  thorough-paced  liar,  and 
plunged  at  once  into  the  depths  of  your 
credulity.  I  partly  believe  he  made  pretty 
sure  of  ills  company.  Not  many  rich,  not 
many  wise,  or  learned,  composed  at  that 
time  the  common  stowage  of  a  Margate 
packet.  "We  were,  I  am  afraid,  a  set  of  as 
unseasoned  Londoners  (let  our  enemies  give 
it  a  worse  name)  as  Aldermanbury,  or 
Watling  Street,  at  that  time  of  day  could 
have  supplied.  There  might  be  an  excep- 
tion or  two  among  us,  but  1  scorn  to  make 
any  invidious  distinctions  among  such  a 
jolly,  companionable  ship's  company,  as 
those  were  whom  I  sailed  with.  Something 
too  must  be  conceded  to  the  Genius  Loci. 
Had  the  confident  fellow  told  us  half  the 
legends  on  land,  which  he  favored  us 
with  on  tlie  other  element,  I  flatter  myself 
the  good  sense  of  most  of  us  would  have 
revolted.  But  we  were  in  a  new  world,  with 
everything  unfamiliar  about  us,  and  the 
time  and  place  disposed  us  to  the  reception 
•of  any  prodigious  marvel  whatsoever. 
Time  has  obliterated  from  my  memory 
much  of  his  wild  fablings ;  and  the  rest 
would  appear  but  dull,  as  written,  and  to  be 
read  on  shore.  He  had  been  aide-de-camp 
(among  other  rare  accidents  and  fortunes) 
to  a  Persian  Prince,  and  at  one  blow  had 
stricken    off    the    head    of  the    King    of 


58  ©he  l^a.st  (^^r^'Axp  of  (t\m. 

Carimania  on  horseback.  He,  of  course, 
married  the  Prince's  daughter.  I  forget 
what  unlucky  turn  in  the  politics  of  that 
court,  comljiniiig  with  the  loss  of  his  consort, 
was  the  reason  of  his  quitting  Persia ;  but, 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  magician,  he  trans- 
ported himself,  along  witli  his  hearers,  back 
to  England,  wliere  we  still  found  him  in  the 
confidence  of  great  ladies.  .  There  was  some 
story  of  a  princess — Elizabeth,  if  I  remember 
■ — having  intrusted  to  his  care  an  extraor- 
dinary casket  of  jewels,  upon  some  extraor- 
dinary occasion, — ^but,  as  I  am  not  certain  of 
the  name  or  circumstance  at  this  distance  of 
time,  I  must  leave  it  to  the  Poyal  daughters 
of  England  to  settle  the  honor  among  them- 
selves in  private.  I  cannot  call  to  mind 
half  his  pleasant  wonders ;  but  I  perfectly 
remember,  that  in  the  course  of  his  travels 
he  had  seen  a  phoenix ;  and  he  obligingly  un- 
deceived us  of  the  vulgar  error,  that  there 
is  but  one  of  that  species  at  a  time,  assuring 
us  that  they  were  not  unconnnon  in  some 
parts  of  Upper  Egypt.  Hitherto  he  had 
found  the  most  implicit  listeners.  His 
dreammg  fancies  had  transi^orted  us  be- 
yond the  "ignorant  present."  But  when 
(still  hardying  more  and  more  in  his  triumphs 
over  our  simplicity)  he  went  on  to  affirm 
that  he  had  actually  sailed  through  the 
legs  of  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,  it  really  be- 
came necessary  to  make  a  stand.  .\nd^ 
here  I  must  do  justice  to  the  good  sense 


and  intrepidity  of  one  of  qui-  party,  a  youtli 
that  had  hitherto  been  one  of  his  most 
deferential  auditors,  Avho,  from  his  recent 
reading-,  made  bold  to  assure  the  gentle- 
m;u],  that  there  must  be  some  mistake,  as 
"  the  Colossus  in  question  had  been  destroyed 
long  since ; "  to  whose  opinion,  delivered 
T/itli  all  modesty,  our  hero  was  obliging 
enough  to  concede  thus  much,  that  "  the 
figure  was  indeed  a  little  damaged."  This 
^v;ls  the  only  opposition  he  met  with,  and  it 
did  not  at  all  seem  to  stagger  him,  for  he 
proceeded  with  his  fables,  which  the  same 
youth  appeared  to  swallow  with  still  more 
(;omplacency  than  ever, — confirmed,  as  it 
were,  by  the  extreme  candor  of  that  conces- 
5iion.  With  these  prodigies  he  wheedled 
us  on  till  we  came  in  sight  of  the  Reculvers, 
^vhich  one  of  our  own  company  (having  been 
the  voyage  before)  immediately  recognizing, 
;md  pointing  out  to  us,  was  considered  by 
us  as  no  ordinary  seaman. 

All  this  time  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the 
deck  quite  a  different  character.  It  was  a 
lad,  apparently  very  poor,  very  infirm,  and 
very  patient.  His  eye  was  ever  on  the  sea, 
with  a  smile ;  and,  if  he  caught  now  and 
then  some  snatches  of  these  wild  legends,  it 
was  by  accident,  and  tliey  seemed  not  to 
concern  him.  Tlie  waves  to  him  whispered 
more  pleasant  stories.  lie  was  as  one,  being 
with  us,  but  not  of  us.  lie  heard  thebell  of 
dinner  ring  without  stirring :    and  when. 


«0  ^\it  m\^i  (^:^'J,^■aM,(i  of  ^lia. 


some  of  us  pulled  out  our  private  stores — 
our  cold  meat  and  our  salads, — he  produced 
iioue,  and  seemed  to  want  none.  Only  a 
solitary  biscuit  he  had  laid  in  ;  provision  for 
the  one  or  two  days  and  nigiits,  to  which 
these  vessels  then  were  oftentimes  obliged 
to  ijrolong-  their  voyage.  Upon  a  nearer  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  w^hicli  he  seemed 
neither  to  court  nor  decline,  we  learned  that 
he  was  going  to  Margate,  ^yith  the  hoj^e 
of  being  admitted  into  the  Tnfirraary  there 
for  sea-bathing.  His  disease  was  a  scrofula 
which  appeared  to  have  eaten  all  over  him. 
He  expressed  great  hopes  of  a  cure;  and 
when  we  asked  him  whether  he, had  any 
friends  where  he  was  going,  he  replied  "  he 
had  wo  friends." 

These  pleasant,  and  some  mournful  pas- 
sages with  the  first  sight  of  the  sea,  co-oper- 
ating with  youth,  and  a  sense  of  holidays, 
and  out-of-door  adventure,  to  me  that  had 
been  pent  up  in  populous  cities  for  many 
months  before, — have  left  upon  my  mind 
the  fragrance  as  of  svunmer  days  gone  by, 
bequeathing  nothing  but  their  remembrance 
for  cold  and  wintry  hours  to  chew  upon. 

Will  it  be  thought  a  digression  (it  may 
spare  some  unwelcome  comparisons)  if  I  en- 
deavor to  account  for  the  dissatisfaction 
which  I  have  heard  so  many  persons  con- 
fess to  have  felt  (as  I  did  myself  feel  in  part 
on  this  occasion)  at  the  siijht  of  the  sea  for 
.the first  time/    I  think  the  reason  usually 


given — referring  to  the  incapacity  of  actual 
objects  for  satisfying  our  preconceptions  of 
them — scarcely  goes  deep  enough  into  tlie 
question.  Let  the  same  person  see  a  lion, 
an  elepliant,  a  mountain,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  and  he  shall  perhaps  feel  himself 
a  little  mortified.  The  things  do  not  fill  up 
that  space,  which  the  idea  of  them  seemed 
to  take  up  in  his  mind.  But  they  have  still 
a  correspondency  to  his  first  notion,  and  in 
time  grow  up  to  it,  so  as  to  produce  a  very 
similar  impression ;  enlarging  themselves  (if 
I  may  say  so)  upon  familiarity.  But  the 
sea  remains  a  disappointment.  Is  it  not 
that  in  the  latter  we  had  expected  to  behold 
(absurdly,  I  grant,  but  I  am  afraid,  by  the 
law  of  imagination,  unavoidably)  not  a  defi- 
nite object,  as  those  wild  beasts,  or  that 
mountain  compassable  by  the  eye,  but  all 
the  sea  at  once,  tue  commensurate  antag- 
onist OF  THE  EARTH  ?  I  do  uot  Say  we  tell , 
ourselves  so  much,  but  the  craving  of  the 
mind  is  to  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less.  I 
will  suppose  the  case  of  a  young  person  of 
fifteen  (as  I  then  was)  knowing  nothing  of 
the  sea  but  from  description.  lie  comes  to 
it  for  the  first  time, — all  that  he  has  been 
reading  of  it  all  liis  life,  and  that  the  most 
enthusiastic  part  of  life, — all  he  has  gathered 
from  narratives  of  wandei'ing  seamen, — 
what  he  has  gained  from  true  voyages,  and 
what  he  cherishes  as  credulously  from  ro- 
mance and  poetry — crowding  their  images 


62         m\t  3:a,st  (^^^n\\^  of  (T^tia. 


a,nd  exacting  strange  tributes  from  expecta- 
tion. He  thinks  of  tlie  great  deep,  and  of 
those  who  go  down  into  it ;  of  its  thousand 
isles,  and  of  tlie  vast  continents  it  waslies ; 
of  its  receiving  tlie  mighty  Plate,  or  Orellana 
into  its  bosom,  without  disturbance,  or 
sense  of  augmentation ;  of  Biscay  swells, 
and  the  mariner 

"  For  many  a  day,  and  many  a  dreadful  night, 
Incessant  laboring  round  the  stormy  Cape  ;  " 

of  fatal  rocks,  and  the  "still-vexed  Ber^ 
moothes ; "  of  great  Avhirlpools,  and  the 
watersix)ut ;  of  sunken  ships,  and  sumlesf» 
treasures  swallowed  up  in  the  unrestor- 
ing  depths  ;  of  fishes  and  quaint  monsters, 
to  which  all  that  is  terrible  on  earth 

"  Be  hut  as  huggs  to  frighten  bahes  withal, 
Compared  v.'itli  the  creatures  in  the  sea's  entral;" 

of  naked  savages,  and  Juan  Fernandez ;  of 
pearls  and  shells  ;  of  coral  beds,  and  of  en- 
chanted isles  ;  of  mermaids'  grots  ; — 

I  do  not  assert  that  in  sober  earnest  he  ex- 
pects to  be  shown  all  these  wonders  at  once, 
but  he  is  under  the  tyranny  of  a  mighty  fac- 
ulty which  haunts  him  with  confused  hints 
and  shadows  of  all  these  ;  and  when  the 
actual  object  opens  lirst  upon  him,  seen  (in 
tame  weather  too,  most  likely)  from  our  unro- 
mantic  coasts, — a  speck,  a  slip  of  sea-water, 
as  it  shows  to  him, — what  can  it  prove  but 


a  very  unsatisfying  and  even  diminutive 
entertainment  ?  Or  if  he  has  come  to  it 
from  the  montli  of  a  river,  was  it  mucli 
more  tlian  the  river  widening?  and,  even 
out  of  sight  of  hind,  wliat  liad  lie  but  a  flat 
Avatery  liorizon  about  him,  notliing  compar- 
able to  the  vast  o'er-curtaining  sky,  his 
familiar  object,  seen  daily  witliout  dread 
or  amazement? — Who,  in  similar  circum- 
stances, has  not  been  tempted  to  exclaim 
with  Charoba,  in  the  poem  of  Gebir, 

"  Is  this  the  mighty  oceau  ?  is  this  all  ?  " 

I  love  town,  or  country ;  but  this  detest- 
able Cinque  Port  is  neither.  I  hate  these 
scrubbed  shoots,  thrusting  out  their  starved 
foliage  from  between  the  horrid  fissures  of 
dusty  innutritions  rocks,  which  the  ama- 
teur calls  "  verdure  to  the  edge  of  the  sea." 
I  require  woods,  and  they  show  me  stunted 
coppices.  I  cry  out  for  the  water-brooks, 
and  pant  for  fresh  streams,  and  inland 
murmurs.  I  cannot  stand  all  day  on  the 
naked  beach,  watching  the  capricious  hues 
of  the  sea,  shifting  like  the  colors  of  a  dying 
mullet.  I  am  tired  of  looking  out  at  the 
windows  of  this  island-prison.  I  would  fain 
retire  into  the  interior  of  my  cage,  "While 
I  gaze  upon  the  sea,  I  want  to  be  on  it,  over 
it,  across  it.  Tt  binds  me  in  with  chains,  as 
of  iron.  jNIy  thoughts  are  abroad.  I  should 
not  so  feel  in  Staffordshire.    There  is  no 


home  for  me  here.  There  is  no  sense  of 
home  at  Hastings.  It  is  a  place  of  fugitive 
resort,  an  heterogeneous  assemblage  of  sea- 
mews  and  stock-brokers,  Amphitrites  of  the 
town,  and  misses  that  coquet  with  the  Ocean. 
If  it  were  what  it  was  in  its  primitive  shape, 
and  what  it  ought  to  have  remained,  a  fair, 
honest  fishing-town,  and  no  more,  it  were 
sometliing; — with  a  few  straggling  fisher- 
men's huts  scattered  about,  artless  as  its 
cliffs,  and  with  their  materials  filched  from 
them,  it  were  something.  I  could  abide  to 
dwell  with  Meshech  ;  to  assort  with  fisher- 
swains,  and  smugglers.  There  are,  or  I 
dream  there  are,  many  of  this  latter  occupa- 
tion here.  Their  faces  become  the  place. 
I  like  a  smuggler.  He  is  the  only  honest 
thief.  He  robs  nothing  but  the  revenue, — 
an  abstraction  I  never  greatly  cared  about. 
I  could  go  out  with  them  in  their  mackerel 
boats,  or  about  their  less  ostensible  business, 
with  some  satisfaction.  I  can  even  tolerate 
those  poor  victims  to  monotony,  who  from 
day  to  day  pace  along  the  beach,  in  endless 
progress  and  recurrence,  to  watch  their 
illicit  countrymen — townsfolk  or  brethren 
perchance — whistling  to  the  sheathing  or 
unsheathing  of  their  cutlasses  (their  only 
solace),  who,  under  the  mild  name  of  Pre- 
ventive Service,  kept  up  a  legitimated  civil 
warfare  in  the  deplorable  absence  of  a 
foreign  one,  to  show  their  detestation  of  run 
Hollands,  and  zeal  for  Old  England.    But  it 


^\it  p^t  (^^mp  ot  mm.  65 

is  the  visitants  from  town,  that  come  here 
to  saij  that  they  have  been  here,  with  no 
more  rehsh  of  the  sea  than  a  pond-]ierch  or 
a  dace  might  be  supposed  to  have,  that  are 
my  aversion.  I  feel  hke  a  foohsh  dace  in 
these  regions,  and  have  as  httle  toleration 
for  myself  here  as  for  them.  What  can 
they  want  here  ?  if  they  had  a  true  I'elish 
of  the  ocean,  Avhy  have  they  brought  all 
this  land  luggage  with  them  ?  or  why  pitch 
their  civilized  tents  in  the  desert?  What 
mean  these  scanty  book-rooms — marine 
libraries  as  they  entitle  them — if  the  sea 
were,  as  they  would  have  us  believe,  a  book 
"  to  read  strange  matter  in '? "  what  are' 
their  foolish  concert-rooms,  if  they  come,  as 
they  would  f  i^in  be  thought  to  do,  to  listen  to 
the  music  of  the  waves.  All  is  false  and 
hollow  pretension.  They  come,  because  it 
is  the  fashion,  and  to  spoil  the  nature  of  the 
place.  The}'-  are,  mostly,  as  I  have  said, 
stockbrokers  ;  but  I  have  watched  the  better 
sort  of  them, —  now  and  then  an  honest 
citizen  (of  the  old  stamp),  in  the  simplicity 
of  his  heart,  shall  bring  down  his  wife  and 
daughters,  to  taste  the  sea-breezes.  I  always 
know  the  date  of  their  arrival.  It  is  easy 
to  see  it  in  their  countenances.  A  day  or 
two  they  go  wandering  on  the  shingles,  pick- 
ing up  cockle-shells,  and  thinking  them 
great  things ;  but,  in  a  poor  week,  imagina- 
tion slackens :  they  begin  to  discover  that 
cockles    produce    no   pearls,   and  then — O 


then ! — if  I  conld  interpret  for  the  pretty 
creatures  ( I  know  they  have  not  the  courage 
to  confess  it  themselves),  how  giadly  would 
they  exchange  their  seaside  rambles  for  a 
Sunday- walk  on  the  greensward  of  their 
accustomed  Twickenham  meadows ! 

I  would  ask  of  one  of  these  sea-charmed 
emigrants,  Avho  think  they  truly  lo%'e  the 
sea,  with  its  wild  usages,  what  would  their 
feelings  be,  if  some  of  the  unsophisticated 
aborigines  of  this  place,  encouraged  by  their 
courteous  questionings  here  should  venture, 
on  the  faith  of  such  assured  sympathy 
between  them,  to  return  the  visit,  and  come 
up  to  see — London.  I  must  imagine  them 
with  their  fishing-tackle  on  their  back,  as 
we  carry  our  town  necessaries.  "What  a 
sensation  would  it  cause  in  Lothbury. 
"What  vehement  laughter  would  it  not  excite 
among 

*'  The  daughters  of  Cheapside,  and  ■nives   of  Lom- 
bard Street  !  '^ 

I  am  sure  that  no  town-bred  or  inland- 
born  subjects  can  feel  their  true  and  natural 
nourishment  at  these  sea-places.  Nature, 
where  she  does  not  mean  us  for  mariners 
and  vagabonds,  bids  us  stay  at  home.  The 
salt  foam  seems  to  nourish  a  spleen.  I  am 
not  half  so  good-natured  as  by  the  milder 
waters  of  my  natural  river.  I  would  ex- 
change these  sea-gulls  for  swans,  and  scud 
a  swallow  forever  about  the  banks  of 
Tamesis. 


^\\t  iTast  (^^^n\p  of  eUii.  67 


The  Convalesce 

A  PEETTY  severe  fit  of  indisposition  which, 
Ymder  tlie  name  of  a  nervous  fever,  has 
made  a  prisoner  of  nie  for  some  weeks  past, 
and  is  but  slowly  leaving  me,  has  reduced 
ine  to  an  incapacity  of  reflecting  upon  any 
topic  foreign  to  itself.  Expect  no  healthy 
conclusions  from  me  this  month,  reader  ;  I 
can  offer  you  only  sick  men's  dreams. 

And  truly  the  whole  state  of  sickness  is 
such  ;  for  what  else  is  it  but  a  magniiicent 
dream  for  a  man  to  lie  a-bed,  and  draw  day- 
light curtains  about  him  ;  and,  shutting  out 
the  sun,  to  induce  a  total  oblivion  of  all  the 
works  which  are  going  on  under  it?  To 
become  insensible  to  all  the  operations  of 
life,  except  the  beatings  of  one  feeble  pulse  ? 

If  there  be  a  regal  solitude,  it  is  a  sick- 
bed. How  the  patient  lords  it  there  !  what 
caprices  he  acts  without  control !  hoAv  king- 
like he  sways  his  pillow — tumbling,  and 
tossing,  and  shifting,  and  lowering,  and 
thumping,  and  flatting,  and  molding  it,  to 
the  ever- varying  requisitions  of  his  throb- 
bing temples. 

He  changes  sides  oftener  than  a  ]")olitician. 
Now  he  lies  full  length,  then  half  length, 


G8  ^\tt  f  a!5t  (^^mp  at  m\^. 

obliquely,  transversely,  head  and  feet  quite- 
across  the  bed;  and  none  accuses  him  of 
tergiversation.  Within  the  four  curtains 
he  is  absolute.  They  are  his  Mare  Clau- 
sum. 

How  sickness  enlarges  the  dimensions  of 
a  man's  self  to  himself !  he  is  his  own  ex- 
elusive  object.  Supreme  selfishness  is  in- 
culcated upon  him  as  his  only  duty.  'Tis 
the  Two  Tables  of  the  Law  to  him.  He  has 
nothing  to  think  of  but  how  to  get  well. 
What  passes  out  of  doors,  or  within  tliem, 
so  he  hear  not  the  jarring  of  them,  affects 
him  not. 

A  little  while  ago  he  was  greatly  con- 
cerned in  the  event  of  a  lawsuit,  which  was 
to  be  the  making  or  the  marring  of  his  dear- 
est friend.  He  was  to  be  seen  trudging  about 
upon  this  man's  errand  to  fifty  quarters  of 
the  town  at  once,  jogging  this  witness,  re- 
freshing that  solicitor.  The  cause  was  ta 
come  on  yesterday.  He  is  absolutely  as 
indifferent  to  the  decision,  as  if  it  M'cre  a 
question  to  be  tried  at  Pekin.  Peradvent- 
ure  from  some  whispering,  going  on  about 
the  house,  not  intended  for  his  hearing, 
he  picks  up  enough  to  make  him  under- 
stand, that  things  went  cross-grained  in  the 
Court  yesterday,  and  his  friend  is  ruined. 
But  the  word  "friend,"  and  the  word  "ruin,'* 
disturb  him  no  more  than  so  much  jargon. 
He  is  not  to  think  of  anything  but  iiow  to 
get  better. 


^U  p.st  (^^^inp  of  mix,         69 


What  a  world  of  foreign  cares  are  merged 
in  that  absorbing  consideration  ! 

lie  has  put  on  the  strong  armor  of  sick- 
ness, he  is  wrapped  in  tlie  callous  hide  of 
suffering  ;  he  keeps  his  sympathy,  like  some 
curious  vintage,  under  trusty  lock  and  key, 
for  his  own  use  only. 

He  lies  pitying  himself,  honing  and  moan- 
ing to  himself !  he  yearneth  over  himself ; 
his  bowels  are  even  melted  within  him,  to 
think  what  he  suffers ;  he  is  not  ashamed  to 
weep  over  himself. 

He  is  forever  x)lotting  how  to  do  some 
good  to  himself ;  studying  little  stratagems 
and  artificial  alleviations. 

He  makes  the  most  of  himself ;  dividing 
himself,  by  an  allowable  fiction,  into  as  many 
distinct  individuals,  as  he  hath  sore  and  sor- 
rowing members.  Sometimes  he  meditates 
■ — as  of  a  thing  apart  from  him — upon  liis 
poor  aching  head,  and  tliat  dull  pain  which, 
dozing  or  waking,  lay  in  it  all  the  past  night 
like  a  log,  or  palpable  substance  of  pain,  not 
to  be  removed  without  opening  the  very 
skull,  as  it  seemed,  to  take  it  thence.  Or  he 
pities  his  long,  clammy,  attenuated  fingers. 
He  compassionates  himself  all  over ;  and  his 
bed  is  a  very  discipline  of  liumanity,  and 
tender  heart. 

lie  is  his  own  sympathizer ;  and  instinc- 
tively feels  that  none  can  so  well  perform 
iihat  office  for  him.  He  cares  for  few  specta- 
tors to  his  tragedy.    Only  that  punctual  face 


70  (The  p.st  (!!^,$,$ay,^  of  miix. 


of  the  old  nurse  i^leases  him,  that  an- 
nounces his  brotlis  and  his  cordials.  lie 
likes  it  because  it  is  so  unmoved,  and  because 
he  can  pour  forth  his  feverish  ejacula- 
tion before  it  as  unreservedly  as  to  his 
bedpost. 

To  the  "\;^'orld*s  business  he  is  dead.  He 
understands  not  what  the  callings  and  occu- 
pations of  mortals  are ;  only  he  has  a  glim- 
mering conceit  of  some  such  thing,  Avheii 
the  doctor  makes  bis  daily  call ;  and  even 
in  the  lines  on  that  busy  face  he  reads  no 
multiplicity  of  patients,  but  solely  conceives 
of  himself  as  the  sic/c  man.  To  what  other 
uneasy  couch  the  good  man  is  hastening, 
when  he  slips  out  of  his  chamber,  folding 
up  his  thin  douceur  so  carefully,  for  fear  or 
rustling — is  no  speculation  which  he  can  at 
present  entertain.  He  thinks  only  of  the 
regular  return  of  the  same  iDhenomenc.i  at 
the  same  hour  to-morrow. 

Household  rumors  touch  him  not.  Some 
faint  murmur,  indicative  of  life  going  on 
within  the  house,  soothes  him,  while  he 
knows  not  distinctly  what  it  is.  He  is  not 
to  know  anything,  not  to  think  of  anything. 
Servants  gliding  up  or  doA^mi  the  distant 
staircase,  treading  as  upon  velvet,  gently 
keep  his  ear  awake  so  long  as  he  troubles 
not  himself  further  than  with  some  feeble 
guess  at  their  errands.  Exacter  knowledge 
would  be  a  burden  to  him  ;  he  can  just  en- 
dure the  pressure  of  conjecture.:;.     He  opens. 


<ruc  p,!St  (^^^n\p  of  €\\n,  71 

Ms  eye  faintly  at  the  dull  stroke  of  the 
muffled  knocker,  and  closes  it  again  without 
asking  "  Who  was  it?  "  He  is  flattered  by 
a  g-eneral  notion  that  inquiries  are  making 
after  him,  but  he  cares  not  to  know  the 
name  of  the  inquirer.  In  the  general  still- 
ness and  awful  hush  of  the  house,  he  lies  in 
state,  and  feels  his  sovereignty. 

To  be  sick  is  to  enjoy  monaiichial  preroga- 
tives. Compare  the  silent  tread,  and  quiet 
ministry  almost  by  the  eye  only,  with  which 
he  is  served — with  the  careless  demeanor, 
the  unceremonious  goings  in  and  out  (slap- 
ping of  doors,  or  leaving  them  open)  of  the 
very  same  attendants,  when  he  is  getting  a 
little  better — and  you  will  confess,  that 
from  the  bed  of  sickness  (throne  let  me 
rather  call  it)  to  the  elbow  chair  of  conva- 
lescence, is  a  fall  from  dignity,  amounting  to 
a  deposition. 

■  How  convalescence  shrinks  a  inan  back 
to  his  pristine  stature !  where  is  now  the 
space,  Avhich  he  occupied  so  lately,  in  his 
own,  in  the  family's  eye  ? 

The  scene  of  his  regalities,  his  sick-room, 
which  was  his  presence  chamber,  wliere  he 
lay  and  acted  his  despotic  fancies — how  is 
it  reduced  to  a  common  bedroom!  The 
trimness  of  the  very  bed  has  something 
petty  and  unmeaning  about  it.  It  is  made 
every  day.  How  unlike  to  that  wavy,  many- 
furrowed,  oceanic  surface,  which  it  pre- 
sented so  short  a,  time  since,  when  to  make 


She  |:a,$t  e-.^'.^ay.^i  ot  (Bin, 


it  was  a  service  not  to  be  thought  of  at 
oftener  than  three  or  four  days'  revohitions, 
when  the  patient  was  with  pain  and  grief  to 
be  lifted  for  a  httle  while  out  of  it,  to  sub- 
mit to  the  encroachments  of  unwelcome 
neatness,  and  decencies  v/hich  his  shaken 
frame  deprecated ;  then  to  bo  lifted  into  it 
again,  for  another  three  or  four  days'  respite, 
to  flounder  it  out  of  shape  again,  while 
every  fresh  furrow  was  an  historical  record 
of  some  shifting  posture,  some  uneasy  turn- 
ing, some  seeking  for  a  little  ease ;  and  the 
shrunken  skin  scarce  told  a  truer  story  than 
the  crumpled  coverlet. 

Hushed  are  those  mysterious  sighs — those 
groans — so  much  more  awful,  while  we 
knew  not  from  what  caverns  of  vast  hidden 
suffering  they  proceeded.  The  Lernean 
pangs  are  quenched.  The  riddle  of  sickness 
is  solved;  and  Philoctetes  is  become  an 
ordinary  personage. 

Perhaps  some  relic  of  the  sick  man's  dream 
of  greatness  survives  in  the  still  lingering 
visitations  of  the  medical  attendant.  But 
how  is  he,  too,  changed  with  everything 
else !  Can  this  be  he — this  man  of  news — 
of  chat — of  anecdote — of  everytliing  but 
physic, — can  this  be  he,  who  so  lately 
came  between  the  patient  and  his  cruel 
enemy,  as  on  some  solemn  embassy  from 
Kature,  erecting  herself  into  a  high 
mediating  party? — PshaAv!  'tis  some  old 
"woman. 


©he  i^asit  i^s$mp  at  (£Ua.  73 


Farewell  with  him  all  that  made  sickness 
pompous — the  spell  that  hushed  the  house- 
hold— the  desert-like  stillness,  felt  through- 
out its  inmost  chambers — the  mute  attend- 
ance— the  inquiry  by  looks — the  still  softer 
delicacies  of  self-attention — the  sole  and 
single  eye  of  distemper  a  lonely  fixed  upon 
itself — world-thoughts  excluded — the  man 
a  world  unto  himself — his  own  theater, — 

"  What  a  speck  is  he  dwindled  into  ! " 

In  this  fiat  swamp  of  convalescence,  left 
by  the  ebb  of  sickness,  yet  far  enough  from 
the  terra  firma  of  established  health,  your 
note,  dear  Editor,  reached  me,  requesting 
— an  article.  In  Articulo  Mortis,  thought  I ; 
but  it  is  something  hard, — and  the  quibble, 
wretched  as  it  was,  relieved  me.  The  sum- 
mons, unseasonable  as  it  appeared,  seemed 
to  link  me  on  again  to  the  petty  businesses 
of  life,  which  I  had  lost  sight  of ;  a  gentle 
call  to  activity,  however  trivial ;  a  A\'hole- 
some  weaning  from  that  preposterous  dream 
of  self-absorption — the  puffy  state  of  sick- 
ness— in  which  I  confess  to  have  lain  so  long 
insensible  to  the  magazines  and  monarchies 
of  the  world  alike  ;  to  its  laws,  and  to  its 
literature.  The  hypochondrhic  flatus  is 
subsiding;  the  acres,  which  in  imagination  I 
had  spread  over — for  the  sick  man  swells  in 
the  sole  contemplation  of  his  single  suffer- 
ings, till  he  becomes  a  Tityus  to  himself — 


74  iLht  faist  (^$^i\xp  ot  (»:lia. 


are  wasting  to  a  span  ;  and  for  the  giant  ot 
self-importance,  which  I  was  so  lately,  you 
have  me  once  again  in  my  natural  preten- 
sions— the  lean  and  meager  figure  of  your 
msignificant  Essayist. 


©he  l^asit  (^^^mp  0i  (!cUa.  75 


Sanity  of  True  Genius. 

So  far  from  the  position  holding-  true,  that 
great  wit  (or  genius,  in  our  modern  way  of 
spealcing)  has  a  necessary  alhance  with  in- 
sanity, the  greatest  wits,  ontlie  contrary,  will 
ever  be  found  to  be  the  sanest  writers.  It 
is  impossible  for  the  mind  to  conceive  of  a 
mad  Shakespeare.  The  greatness  of  wit,  by 
which  the  poetic  talent  is  here  chiefly  to  be 
understood,  manifests  itself  in  the  admiraV:»le 
balance  of  all  the  faculties.  Machiess  is  the 
disproportionate  straining:  or  excess  of  any 
one  of  them.  "  So  strong  a  wit,"  says  Cow- 
ley, speaking  of  a  poetical  friend, 

" did  Nature  to  him  frame, 

As  all  things  but  his  judgment  overcame  ; 

His  judgment  like  tlie  heavenly  moon  did  show» 

Tempering  that  mighty  sea  below." 

The  grou.nd  of  the  mistake  is,  that  men, 
finding  the  raptures  of  the  higher  poetry  a 
condition  of  exaltation,  to  which  they  have 
no  parallel  in  their  own  exix3rience,  besides 
the  spurious  resemblance  of  it  in  dreams  and 
fevers,  impute  a  state  of  dreaminess  and 
fever  to  the  poet.  But  the  true  poet  dreams 
being  awake.     lie  is  not  possessed  by  his 


76  STUc  ^a.$it  (t^^TiV.^  Df  ^Ua. 


subject,  but  has  dominion  over  it.  In  the 
groves  of  Eden  he  T\'alks  familiar  as  in  his 
native  patlis.  lie  ascends  the  empyrean 
heaven,  and  is  not  intoxicated.  He  treads 
the  burning-  marl  v/itliout  dismay ;  he  wings 
his  flight  Avithout  self-loss  through  realms 
of  chaos,  "  and  old  night.'''  Or  if,  aban- 
doning himself  to  that  severer  chaos  of 
a  "  human  mind  untuned,"  he  is  content 
awhile  to  bo  mad  with  Lear,  or  to  hate  man- 
kind (a  sort  of  madness)  with  Timon ; 
neither  is  that  madness,  nor  this  misan- 
thropy, so  unchecked,  but  that — never  let- 
ting the  reinsof  reason  wholly  go,  while  most 
he  seems  to  do  so — ha  has  his  better  genius 
still  v.'hispering  at  his  ear,  with  the  good  ser- 
vant Kent  suggesting  saner  counsels,  or  with 
the  honest  steward  Flavins  recommending 
kindlier  resolutions.  Where  he  seems  most 
to  recede  from  humanity,  he  will  be  found 
the  truest  to  it.  From  beyond  the  scope  of 
Xature,  if  he  summons  possible  existences, 
he  s^ibjugates  them  to  the  law  of  her  con- 
sistency. He  is  beautifully  loyal  to  that 
sovereign  directress,  even  when  he  appears 
most  to  betray  and  desert  her.  His  ideal 
tribes  submit  to  policy;  his  very  mon- 
sters are  tamed  to  his  hand,  even  as  that 
"wild  sea-brood,  shepherded  by  Proteus.  lie 
tames,  and  he  clothes  them  with  attributes 
of  flesh  and  blood,  till  they  wonder  at  them- 
selves, like  Indian  Islanders  forced  to  sub- 
jnit    to    European    vesture.     Caliban,    the 


(J^Uc  ^A^t  €i^.'iatj.si  oi  <gHiU  T7 


"Witclies,  are  as  true  to  the  laws  of  their  own 
nature  (ours  with,  a  difference)  as  Othello, 
Hamlet  and  Macbeth.  Herein  the  great  and 
the  little  wits  are  diiferenced ;  that  if  tlie 
latter  wander  ever  so  little  from  nature  or 
actual  existence,  they  lose  themselves,  and 
their  readers.  Their  phantoms  are  lawless ; 
their  visions  nightmares.  They  do  not  cre- 
ate, which  implies  shaping  and  consistency. 
Their  imaginations  are  not  active, — for  to  be 
active  is  to  call  something  into  act  and  form, 
— but  passive,  as  men  in  sick  dreams.  For 
the  supernatural,  or  something  superadded 
to  what  Yv'o  know  of  nature,  they  give  you 
the  plainly  non-natural.  And  if  this  were 
all,  and  that  these  mental  hallucinations 
were  discoverable  only  in  the  treatment  of 
subjects  out  of  nature,  or  transcending  it, 
the  judgment  might  with  some  plea  be  par- 
doned if  it  ran  riot,  and  a  little  wantonized ; 
but  even  in  the  describing  of  real  and  every- 
day life,  that  which  is  before  their  eyes,  one 
of  these  lesser  wits  shall  more  deviate  from 
nature, — show  more  of  that  in  consequence, 
which  has  a  natural  alliance  with  frenzy, — 
than  a  great  genius  in  his  "  maddest  tits," 
as  Withers  somewhere  calls  them.  We  ap- 
peal to  any  one  that  is  acquainted  with  the 
common  run  of  Lane's  novels, — as  they  ex- 
isted some  twenty  or  thirty  years  back, — 
those  scanty  intellectual  viands  of  the  whole 
female  reading  public  till  a  liappier  genius 
arose,  and  expelled  forever  the  innutritious 


78  ZlK  i:ii:&'t  €^$np  of  (t\m. 


phantoms, — whether  he  has  not  found  his 
brain  more  "  betossed,"  his  memory  more 
puzzled,  his  sense  of  wlien  and  where  more 
confounded  among"  tlie  improbable  events, 
the  incoherent  incidents,  the  inconsistent 
characters,  or  no  characters,  of  some  third- 
rate  love-intrio'ne, — where  the  persons  shall 
"be  a  Lord  Glendamour  and  a  lAIiss  Rivers, 
and  the  scene  only  alternate  between  Bath 
and  Bond  Street, — a  more  bewildering- dream- 
iness induced  upon  him,  than  he  has  felt 
wandering  over  'all  the  fairy  grounds  of 
Spenser.  In  the  productions  we  refer  to, 
nothing  but  names  and  places  is  familiar ; 
the  persons  are  neither  of  this  world  nor  of 
any  other  conceivable  one ;  an  endless  string 
of  activities  without  purpose,  of  purposes 
destitute  of  motive  : — we  meet  phantoms  in 
our  known  Avalks ;  Jantasques  only  chris- 
tened. In  the  poet  we  have  names  which 
announce  fiction ;  anu  v/e  have  absolutely 
no  place  at  all,  for  the  things  and  persons  of 
the  Fairy  Queen  prate  not  of  their  "  where- 
about." But  in  their  inner  nature,  and  the 
law  of  their  speech  and  actions,  we  are  at 
home  and  upon  acquainted  ground.  The 
one  turns  life  into  a  dream  ;  the  other  to  the 
Avildest  dreams  gives  the  sobrieties  of  every- 
day occurrences.  By  what  subtle  art  of 
tracing  the  mental  processes  it  is  effected, 
we  are  not  philosophers  enough  to  explain ; 
but  in  that  wonderful  episode  of  the  cave  of 
Mammon,  in  which  the  jNIoney  God  appears 
first  in  the  lowest  form  of  a  miser,  is  then 


©he  p.$t  (^^$n\p  ot  m\n.  79 

a  worker  of  metals,  and  becomes  the  god  of 
all  the  treasures  of  the  world;  and  has  a 
daughter,  Ambition,  before  whom  all  the 
world  kneels  for  favor, — with  the  Hespe- 
rian fruit,  the  waters  of  Tantalus,  with  Pilate 
washing  his  hands  vainly,  but  not  imperti- 
nently, in  the  same  stream, — that  we  should 
be  at  one  moment  in  the  cave  of  an  old 
hoarder  of  treasures,  at  the  next  at  the  forge 
of  the  Cyclops,  in  a  palace  and  yet  in  hell,  all 
at  once,  witli  the  shifting  mutations  of  the 
most  rambling  dream,  and  our  judgment 
yet  all  the  time  awake,  and  neither  able  nor 
willing  to  detect  the  fallacy, — is  a  proof  of 
that  hidden  sanity  which  still  guides  the 
X3oet  in  the  wildest  seeming  aberrations. 

It  is  not  enough  lo  say  that  the  whole 
■episode  is  a  copy  of  the  mind's  conceptions 
in  sleep;  it  is,  in  some  sort, — but  what  a 
copy !  Let  the  most  romantic  of-  us,  that 
has  1)een  entertained  all  night  with  the  spec- 
tacle of  some  wild  and  magnificent  vision, 
recombine  it  in  the  morning,  and  try  it  by 
his  waking  judgment.  That  which  ap- 
peared so  shifting,  and  yet  so  coherent, 
Avhile  that  faculty  was  passive,  when  it 
■comes  under  cool  examination  shall  appear 
so  reasonless  and  so  unlinked,  that  we  are 
ashamed  to  have  been  so  deluded;  and  to 
have  taken,  though  but  in  sleep,  a  monster 
for  a  god.  But  the  transitions  in  this  epi- 
sode are  every  whit  as  violent  as  in  the  most 
extravagant  dream,  and  yet  the  waking 
judgment  ratifies  them. 


«0  ehc  2Ca,^t  (T'^^ams  of  (glia. 


Captain   Jackson. 

Amoxg  the  deaths  in  our  obituary  for 
this  month,  I  observe  with  concern  "  At  his 
cottage  on  tlie  Batli  road,  Captain  Jackson." 
Tlie  name  and  attribution  are  common 
enough ;  but  a  feeling  like  reproach  per- 
suades me,  that  this  could  have  been  no 
other  in  fact  than  my  dear  old  friend,  who 
some  five-and-twenty  years  ago  rented  a  tene- 
ment, which  he  was  pleased  to  dignify  with, 
the  appellation  here  used,  about  a  mile  from 
AVestl)ourne  Green.  Alack,  how  good  men, 
and  the  good  turns  they  do  us,  slide  out  of 
memor}^  and  are  recalled  but  by  the  sur- 
prise of  some  such  sad  memento  as  that 
which  now  lies  before  us ! 

He  whom  I  mean  was  a  retired  half-pay 
officer,  with  a  wife  and  two  grown-u]> 
daughters,  whom  he  maintained  Avitli  the 
port  and  notions  of  gentlewomen  upon  that 
slender  professional  allowance.  Comely  girls 
they  were  too. 

And  was  I  in  danger  of  forgetting  this 
man? — his  cheerful  supi^ers — the  noble  tone 
of  hospitality,  when  first  you  set  your  foot  in 
the  cottage^ — the  anxious  ministerings  about 


®h?  fa^-t  (S^^nxp  of  mm,  81 

you  where  little  or  nothing  (God  knows)  was 
to  be  ministered.  Altliea's  horn  in  a  poor 
platter, — the  power  of  self-enchantment,  by 
which,  in  his  magnificent  wishes  to  enter- 
tain you,  he  multiplied  his  means  to  boun- 
ties. 

You  saw  with  your  bodily  eyes  indeed 
what  seemed  a  bare  scrag — cold  saA^ngs 
from  the  foregone  meal — remnant  hardly 
sufficient  to  send  a  mendicant  from  the  door 
contented.  But  in  the  copious  will — the 
reveling  imagination  of  your  host — the 
"mhid,  the  mind,  Master  Sliallow,"  whole 
beeves  were  spread  before  you — hecatombs 
• — no  end  appeared  to  the  profusion. 

It  was  the  widow's  cruse — the  loaves  and 
fishes ;  carving  could  not  lessen,  nor  help- 
ing diminish  it — the  stamina  were  left — the 
elemental  bone  still  flourished,  divested  of 
its  accidents. 

"Let  us  live  while  we  can,"  methinks  I 
hear  the  open-handed  creature  exclaim; 
"  While  we  have,  let  us  not  want "  ;  "  Here  is- 
plenty  left";  "Want  for  nothing," — with 
many  more  such  hospitable  sayings,  the 
spurs  of  appetite,  and  old  concomitants  of 
smoking  boards,  and  feast-oppressed  char- 
gers. Then  sliding  a  slender  ratio  of  Single 
Gloucester  upon  his  wife's  plate,  or  the 
daughters',  he  would  convey  the  renmant 
rind  into  his  own,  with  a  merry  quirk  of 
"the  nearer  the  bone,"  etc.,  and  declaring 
that  he  universally  preferred  the  outside. 
6 


5:i«  ITa^t  (t^^ixxp  t)t  m^. 


For  we  had  our  table  distinctions,  you  are 
to  know,  and  some  of  us  in  a  manner  sat 
above  the  salt.  None  but  his  guest  or  guests 
dreamed  of  tasting  flesh  luxuries  at  night, 
the  fragments  were  vo-d  /lospitibus  sacra. 
But  of  one  thing  or  another  there  was  al- 
ways enough,  and  leavings ;  only  he  would 
sometimes  finish  the  remainder  crust,  to 
show  that  he  wished  no  savings, 

AVine  Ave  had  none,  nor,  except  on  very 
rare  occasions,  spirits ;  but  the  sensation  of 
wine  Avas  there.  Some  thin  kind  of  ale  I 
remember, — "  British  beverage,"  he  would 
say  !  "  Push  about,  my  boys  " ;  "  Drink  to 
your  sweethearts,  girls."  At  every  meager 
draught  a  toast  must  ensue,  or  a  song.  All 
the  forms  of  good  liquor  were  there,  with 
none  of  the  effects  wanting.  Shut  your 
eyes,  and  you  would  swear  a  capacious  bowl 
of  punch  was  foaming  in  the  center,  with 
beams  of  generous  Port  or  3Iadeira  radi- 
ating to  it  from  each  of  the  table-corners. 
You  got  flustered,  without  knowing  whence ; 
tipsy  upon  words ;  and  reeled  under  the 
potency  of  his  unperforming  Bacchanalian 
encouragements . 

We  had  our  songs, —  "  Why,  Soldiers, 
wdiy," — and  the  "British  Grenadiers," — in 
which  last  we  were  all  obliged  to  bear 
chorus.  Both  the  daughters  sang.  Their 
proliciency  was  a  nightly  theme, — the  mas- 
ters he  had  given  them, — the  "  no-expense  " 
which  he  spared  to  accomplish  them  in  a 


mt  Xii^t  (f.o.^ni'..^  cf  miu  83 


science  "so  necessarj^  to  young  women.'' 
But  then — tliej^  could  not  sing  "  without 
the  instrument." 

Sacred,  and,  by  me,  never-to-be-violated, 
secrets  of  Poverty !  Should  I  disclose  your 
honest  aims  at  grandeur,  your  makeshift 
efforts  of  magnificence  ?  Sleep,  sleep,  -with 
all  thy  broken  keys,  if  one  of  the  bunch  be 
€xtant ;  thrummed  by  a  thousand  ancestral 
thumbs ;  dear,  cracked  spinnet  of  dearer 
Louisa !  Without  mention  of  mine,  be 
dumb,  thou  thin  accompaniment  of  her  thin- 
ner warble !  A  veil  be  spread  over  the  dear 
delighted  face  of  the  well-deluded  father, 
who  now,  haply  listening  to  cherubic  notes, 
scarce  feels  sincerer  pleasure  than  when  she 
awakened  thy  time-shaken  chords  respon- 
sive to  the  twitterings  of  that  slender  image 
of  a  voice. 

"We  were  not  without  our  literary  talk 
€itlier.  It  did  not  extend  far,  but  as  far 
as  it  went,  it  was  good.  It  was  bottomed 
well ;  had  good  grounds  to  go  upon.  In 
the  cottage  was  a  room,  which  tradition 
authenticated  to  have  been  the  same  in 
which  Glover,  in  his  occasional  retirements, 
had  penned  the  greater  part  of  his  Leonidas. 
This  circumstance  was  nightly  quoted, 
though  none  of  the  i^resent  inmates,  tliat  I 
could  discover,  appeared  ever  to  have  met 
with  the  i^oem  in  question.  But  that  was 
no  matter.  Glover  had  written  there,  and 
the  anecdote  was  pressed  into  tlie  account  of 


84  mu  fa^t  €^mp  at  min. 

the  family  importance.  It  diffused  a  learned 
air  through  the  apartment,  the  little  side 
casement  of  which  (the  poet's  study  win- 
dow), openmg  upon  a  superb  view  as  far  as 
the  pretty  spire  of  Harrow,  over  domains 
and  patrimonial  acres,  not  a  rood  nor  square 
yard  whereof  our  host  could  call  his  own, 
yet  gave  occasion  to  an  immoderate  expan- 
sion of — vanity  shall  I  call  it? — in  his  bosom, 
as  he  showed  them  in  a  glowing  summer 
evening.  It  was  all  his,  he  took  it  all  in, 
and  communicated  rich  portions  ofit  to  his 
guests.  It  was  a  part  of  his  largess,  his. 
hospitality  ;  it  was  going  over  his  grounds ; 
he  was  lord  for  the  time  of  showing  them,, 
and  you  the  implicit  lookers-up  to  his  niag- 
nilicence. 

He  was  a  juggler,  who  threw  mists  be- 
fore your  eyes — you  had  no  time  to  detect 
his  fallacies.  lie  would  say,  "  Hand  me  the 
silver  sugar  tongs ; "'  and  before  you  could 
discover  it  was  a  single  spoon,  and  that 
plated,  he  would  disturb  and  captivate  your 
imagination  by  a  misnomer  of  "  the  urn  " 
for  a  tea-kettle ;  or  by  calling  a  homely 
bench  a  sofa.  Eicli  men  direct  you  to  tlieir 
furniture,  poor  ones  divert  you  from  it ;  he 
neither  did  one  nor  the  other,  but  by  simply 
assuming  that  everything  was  handsome- 
about  him,  you  were  positively  at  a  demur 
what  you  did,  or  did  not  see,  at  the  cottage. 
With  nothing  to  live  on,  he  seemed  to  live 
on  everything.     He  had  a  stock  of  wealth. 


^]u  ^:,^t  iS^^ati^  cC  mvA.  85 


(in  his  mind ) ;  not  that  which  is  properly 
teTmedConteht,  for  in  truth  lie  was  not  to  be 
contained  at  all,  but  overflowed  all  bounds 
hy  the  force  of  a  magnificent  self-delusion. 

Enthusiasm  is  catching;  and  even  his 
wife,  a  sober  native  of  North  Britain,  who 
generally  saw  things  more  as  they  were,  was 
not  i^roof  agamst  the  continual  collision  of 
his  credulity.  Iler  daughters  were  rational 
and  discreet  young  women ;  in  the  main,  per- 
haps, not  insensible  to  their  true  circum- 
stances. I  have  seen  them  assume  a  thought- 
ful air  at  times.  But  such  was  the  preponder- 
ating opulence  of  his  fancj^,  that  I  am  per- 
suaded, not  for  any  half  hour  together  did 
they  ever  look  their  own  j)rospects  fairly  in 
the  face.  There  was  no  resisting  the  vor- 
tex of  his  temperament.  His  riotous  imag- 
ination conjured  up  handsome  settlements 
before  their  eyes,  which  kept  them  up  in  the 
eye  of  the  world,  too,  and  seem  at  last  to 
have  realized  themselves  ;  for  they  both 
have  married  since,  I  am  told,  more  than 
respectably. 

It  is  long  since,  and  my  memory  waxes 
dim  on  some  subjects,  or  I  should  wish  to 
convey  some  notion  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  pleasant  creature  described  the  circum- 
stances of  his  own  wedding-day.  I  faintly 
remember  something  of  a  cliaise-and-four,  in 
which  he  made  his  entry  into  Glasgow  on 
that  morning  to  fetch  the  bride  home,  or 
carry  her  thither,  I  forget  which.    It  so  com- 


8G  (The  H^a.ot  (iri^im  of  (glia. 


pletely  made  out  the  stanza  of  the  old  bal- 
lad— 

"  "When  v;c  came  down  throui:;li  Glasgow  town, 
We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see; 
My  love  wai  clad  in  black  velvet, 
And  I  myself  in  cramasie." 

I  suppose  it  was  the  only  occasion  upon: 
which  his  own  actual  splendor  at  all  corre- 
sponded with  the  world's  notions  on  that 
subject.  In  homely  cart,  or  traveling' 
caravan,  by  Avhatever  humble  vehicle  they 
chanced  to  be  tran.sported  in  less  prosperous- 
days,  the  ride  tlirough  Glasi^ow  came  back 
upon  his  fancy,  not  as  a  humiliiiting-  contrast, 
but  as  a  fair  occasion  for  revertin<;^  to  that  one 
day's  state.  It  seemed  an  "  equipage  eterne  " 
from  which  no  power  of  fate  or  fortune,  once 
mounted,  had  power  thereafter  to  dislodge 
him. 

There  is  some  merit  in  putting  a  hand- 
some face  upon  indigent  circumstances.  To- 
bully  and  swagger  away  the  sense  of  them 
before  strangers,  may  not  be  always  discom- 
mendable. Tibbs,  and  Bobadil,  even  when 
detected,  have  more  of  our  admiration  than 
contempt.  But  for  a  man  to  put  the  cheat 
upon  himself ;  to  play  the  Bobadil  at  home ; 
and,  steeped  in  jioverty  up  to  the  lips,  to 
fancy  himself  all  the  while  chin-deep  in 
riches,  is  a  strain  of  constitutional  philos- 
ophy, and  a  mastery  over  fortune,  which 
was  reserved  for  my  old  friend  Captain 
Jackson. 


5Phf  3^n.^t  (t^^^^w^  ot  (gla»  87 


The  Superannuated  Man. 

Sera  tamen  respexit 
Libertas.  Yirgil. 

A  Clerk  I  M-as  in  London  fray. 

6'Keefe. 

If  peradventure,  Reader,  it  has  been  thy 
lot  to  waste  the  golden  years  of  thy  life — • 
thy  shining  youth — in  the  irksome  conline- 
nient  of  an  office  ;  to  have  thy  prison-days 
prolonged  through  middle  age  down  to  de- 
crepitude and  silver  hairs,  without  hope  of 
release  or  respite ;  to  have  lived  to  forget 
that  there  are  such  things  as  holidays,  or  to 
remember  them  but  as  the  prerogatives  of 
childhood  ;  then,  and  then  only,  will  you  be 
able  to  appreciate  my  deliverance. 

It  is  now  six-and-thirty  years  since  I  took 
my  seat  at  the  desk  in  Mincing  Lane.  Mel- 
ancholy Avas  the  transition  at  fourteen  from 
the  abundant  playtime,  and  the  frequently 
intervening  vacations  of  school-days,  to  the 
eight,  nine,  and  sometimes  ten  hours'  a  day 
attendance  at  the  counting-house.  But  time 
partially  reconciles  us  to  anything.  T  grad- 
ually became  content — doggedly  contented^ 
as  wild  animals  in  cages. 


^\xt  K:\$i  &s$m:^  ct  ^U«. 


It  is  true  I  had  my  Sundays  to  myself ; 
but  Sundays,  admirable  as  the  institution. 
of  them  is  for  purposes  of  worship,  are  for 
that  very  reason  the  very  worst  adapted  for 
days  of  unbending  and  recreation.  In  partic- 
ular, there  is  a  gloom  for  me  attendant 
upon  a  city '  Sunday,  a  weight  in  the  air,  I 
miss  the  cheerful  cries  of  London,  the  music, 
and  the  ballad-singers, — the  buzz  and  stir- 
ring murmur  of  the  streets.  Those  eternal 
bells  depress  me.  The  closed  shops  repel 
me.  Prints,  pictures,  all  the  glittering  and 
endless  succession  of  knacks  and  gewgaws, 
and  ostentatiously  displayed  wares  of  trades- 
men, which  make  a  week-day  saunter 
through  the  less  busy  parts  of-  the  metrop- 
olis so  delightful — are  shut  out.  'No  book- 
stalls deliciously  to  idle  over — no  busy 
faces  to  recreate  the  idle  man  who  contem- 
plates them  ever  passing  by — the  veiy  face 
■of  business  a  charm  by  contrast  to  his  tem- 
porary relaxation  from  it.  Nothing  to  be 
seen  but  unhappy  countenances — or  half- 
happy  at  best — of  emancipated  'prentices 
and  little  tradesfolks,  with  here  and  there  a 
servant-maid  that  has  got  leave  to  go  out, 
Avho,  slaving  all  the  week,  with  the  habit 
has  lost  almost  the  capacity  of  enjoying  a 
free  hour ;  and  livelily  expressing  the  hollo  w- 
ness  of  a  day's  pleasuring.  The  very  strollers 
in  the  fields  on  that  day  look  anything  but 
comiortable. 

But  besides  Sundays  I  had  a  day  at  Easter, 


m\t  f  it,^t  (i^^nxp  ot  min,  89 


and  a  day  at  Christmas,  with  a  full  week  in 
the  summer  to  go  and  air  myself  in  my 
native  fields  of  Hertfordshire.  This  last 
was  a  great  indulgence  ;  and  the  prospect 
of  its  recurrence,  I  believe,  alone  kept  me 
up  through  the  year  and  made  my  durance 
tolerable.  But  when  the  week  came  round, 
did  the  glittering  phantom  of  the  distance 
keep  touch  with  me  ?  or  rather  was  it  not  a 
series  of  seven  nneasy  days,  spent  in  restless 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  a  wearisome  anxiety 
to  find  out  how  to  make  the  most  of  them? 
Where  was  the  quiet,  where  the  promised 
rest?  Before  I  had  a  taste  of  it,  it  was 
vanished.  I  was  at  the  desk  again,  count- 
ing upon  the  fifty-one  tedious  weeks  that 
must  intervene  before  such  another  snatch 
would  come.  Still  the  prospect  of  its  coming 
threw  something  of  an  illumination  upon 
the  darker  side  of  ray  captivity.  Without 
it,  as  I  have  said,  I  could  scarcely  have 
sustained  my  thralldom. 

Independently  of  the  rigors  of  attendance, 
I  have  ever  been  haunted  Avith  a  sense  (per- 
haps a  mere  caprice)  of  incapacity  for  busi- 
ness. This,  during  my  latter  years,  had 
increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  it  was  visible 
in  all  the  lines  of  my  countenance.  My 
health  and  my  good  spirits  flagged.  I  had 
perpetually  a  dread  of  some  crisis,  to  Avhich 
I  should  be  found  unequal.  Jjesides  my 
daylight  servitude,  I  served  over  again  all 
night  in  my  sleep,  and  would  awake  with 


90  ^ht  f  aist  (^.^.$aa.«  of  mm. 

terrors  of  imaginary  false  entries,  errors  in 
my  accounts,  and  the  like.  I  Avas  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  no  prospect  of  emancipation 
presented  itself.  I  had  grov^Ti  to  my  desk, 
as  it  Avere ;  and  the  wood  had  entered  into 
my  soul. 

jMy  fellows  in  the  office  would  sometimes 
rally  me  upon  the  trouble  legible  in  my 
countenance;  but  I  did  not  know  that  it 
had  raised  the  suspicions  of  any  of  my 
employers,  when,  on  the  fifth  of  last  month, 

a  day  ever  to  be  remembered  by  me,  L , 

the  junior  partner  in  the  firm,  calling  me 
on  one  side,  directly  taxed  me  with  my  bad 
looks,  and  frankly  inquired  the  cause  of 
them.  So  taxed,  I  honestly  made  confession 
of  my  infirmity,  and  added  that  I  was  afraid 
I  should  eventually  be  obliged  to  resign  his 
service.  He  spoke  some  words  of  course  to 
hearten  me,  and  there  tha  matter  rested.  A 
whole  week  I  remained  laboring  under  the 
impression  that  I  had  acted  imprudently  in 
my  disclosure ;  that  I  had  foolishly  given  a 
handle  against  myself,  and  had  been  antic- 
ipating my  OAvn  dismissal.  A  week  passed 
in  this  manner,  the  most  anxious  one,  I 
verily  believe,  in  my  wliole  life,  when,  on 
the  evening  of  the  12th  of  April,  just  as  I 
was  about  quitting  my  desk  to  go  home  (it 
might  be  about  eight  o'clock),  I  received  an 
awful  summons  to  attend  the  jDresence  of 
the  whole  assembled  firm  in  the  formidable 
back  parlor.    I  thought  now  my  time  is. 


©he  fa.^'t  (t^smr^  ot  (glia.  01 


surely  come,  I  have  d(^iie  for  myself^  I  am 
going"  to  be  told  that  they  have  no  longer 

occasion  for  me.    L ,  I  could  see,  smiled 

at  the  terror  I  was  in,  which  was  a  little 
relief  to  me, — when  to  my  utter  astonish- 
ment B ,  the   eldest,  partner,  began  a 

formal  harangue  to  me  on  the  length  of  my 
services,  my  very  meritorious  conduct  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  time  (the  deuce, 
thought  T,  how  did  he  find  out  that?  I 
protest  I  never  had  the  confidence  to  think 
as  much).  He  went  on  to  descant  on  the 
expediency  of  retiring  at  a  certain  time  of 
life  (how  my  heart  panted  I),  and  asking  me 
a  few  questions  as  to  the  amount  of  my  own 
property,  of  Avhicli  I  have  a  little,  ended 
with  a  proposal,  to  which  his  three  partners 
nodded  a  grave  assent,  that  I  should  accept 
from  the  house,  which  I  had  served  so  well, 
a  pension  for  life  to  the  amount  of  two- 
thirds  of  my  accustomed  salary — a  magnifi- 
cent offer !  I  do  not  know  what  I  answered 
between  surprise  and  gratitude,  but  it  was 
understood  that  I  accepted  their  proposal, 
and  I  was  told  that  I  was  free  from  that 
hour  to  leave  their  service.  I  stammered 
out  a  bow,  and  at  just  ten  minutes  after 
eight  I  went  home — forever.  This  noble 
benefit — gratitude  forbids  me  to  conceal 
their  names — I  owe  to  the  kindness  of  the 
most  munificent  firm  in  the  world — tlie 
house  of  Boldero,  Merryweather,  Bosanquet^ 
and  Lacy. 


92        Che  i:u,^t  (^^;in\p  0f  mm. 


Esto  i^erpetua! 


For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned, 
overwhelmed.  I  could  only  apprehend  my 
felicity  ;  I  was  too  confused  to  taste  it  sin- 
cerely. I  wandered  about,  thinking  I  was 
happy,  and  knowing  that  I  was  not.  I  was 
in  the  condition  of  a  prisoner  in  the  old  Bas- 
tile,  suddenly  let  loose  after  a  forty  years' 
confinement.  I  could  scarce  trust  myself 
with  myself.  It  was  like  passing  out  of  Time 
into  Eternity — for  it  is  a  sort  of  Eternity 
for  a  man  to  have  his  Time  all  to  himself. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  more  time  on  my 
hands  than  I  could  ever  manage.  From  a 
poor  man,  poor  in  Time,  I  was  suddenly 
lifted  up  into  a  vast  revenue ;  I  could  see 
no  end  of  my  possessions ;  I  wanted  some 
steward,  or  judicious  bailiff,  to  manage  my 
estates  in  Time  for  me.  And  here  let  me 
caution  persons  grown  old  in  active  business, 
not  lightly,  nor  without  weighing  their  own 
resources,  to  forego  their  customary  em- 
ployment all  at  once,  for  there  may  be 
danger  in  it.  I  feel  it  by  myself,  but  I 
know  that  my  resources  are  sutiicient ;  and 
now  that  those  first  giddy  raptures  have  sub- 
sided, I  have  a  quiet  home-feeling  of  the 
blessedness  of  my  condition.  I  am  in  no 
hurry.  Having  all  holidays,  I  am  as  though 
I  had  none.  If  time  hung  heavy  upon  me, 
I  could  walk  it  awaj';  but  I  do  not  walk  all 
day  long,  as  I  used  to  do  in  those  old  tran- 


5:Kc  ^ivp't  i^^^mp  of  (gUa.  03 


sient  holidays,  thirty  miles  a  clay,  to  make 
the  most  of  them.  If  Time  were  trouble- 
some, I  could  read  it  aAvay  ;  but  I  do  7iOt  rend 
in  that  violent  measure  with  v/hich,  having 
no  time  my  own  but  candle-light  Time,  I 
used  to  weary  out  my  head  and  eyesight  in 
by-gone  winters.  I  walk,  read,  or  scribble 
(as  now)  just  when  the  fit  seizes  me.  I  no 
longer  hunt  after  pleasure ;  I  let  it  come  to- 
me.    I  am  like  the  man 

"  that's  born,  and  has  his  j'ears  come  to  him, 
In  some  greeu  desert." 

"Years!"  you  will  say;  "what  is  tliis 
superannuated  simpleton  calculating  upon  T 
He  has  already  told  us  he  is  past  fifty." 

I  have  indeed  lived  nominally  fifty  years, 
but  deduct  out  of  them  the  hours  which  I 
have  lived  to  other  people,  and  not  to  my- 
self, and  you  will  find  me  still  a  young  fellow. 
For  that  is  the  only  true  Time  which  a  man 
can  properly  call  his  own,  that  which  he  has 
all  to  himself ;  the  rest,  though  in  some 
sense  he  may  be  said  to  live  it,  is  other 
people's  Time,  not  his.  The  remnant  of  my 
poor  days,  long  or  short,  is  at  least  multi- 
plied for  me  threefold.  ^My  ten  next  years, 
if  I  stretch  so  far,  will  be  as  long  as  any 
preceding  thirty.  'Tis  a  fair  rule-of-three 
sum. 

Among  the  strange  fantasies  which  beset 
me  at  tl^ie  commencement  of  my  freedom, 
and  of  which  all  traces  are  not  yet  g'one> 


94  ZWt  i:a,$t  (!^.$',oay.s  of  (!:Ua. 

one  was,  that  a  vast  tract  of  time  had  inter- 
vened since  I  quitted  tlie  Countixig- House. 
I  coald  not  conceive  of  it  as  an  att'air  of  yes- 
terday. Tlie  partners,  and  the  clerks,  with 
wlioni  I  had  for  so  many  years,  and  for 
so  many  hours  in  each  day  of  the  year, 
been  closely  associated, — being  suddenly  re- 
moved from  them, — they  seemed  as  dead  to 
nie.  There  is  a  fine  passage,  which  may 
serve  to  illustrate  this  fancy,  in  a  Tragedy 
by  Sir  Robert  Howard,  speaking  of  a  friend's 
death. 

"  '  Twas  but  just  now  lie  went  away  ; 
I  have  not  since  had  time  to  shed  a  teai'  ; 
And  yet  tlie  distance  does  the  same  appear 
As  if  he  had  been  a  thousand  years  from  me. 
Time  takes  no  measure  in  Eternity." 

To  dissipate  this  awkward  feeling,  I  have 
been  fain  to  go  among  them  once  or  twice 
since ;  to  visit  my  old  desk-felloA^s, — my  co- 
brethren  of  the  quill, — that  I  had  left  below 
hi  the  state  militant.  Kot  all  the  kindnesis 
with  M'hich  they  received  me  could  quite 
restore  to  me  that  pleasant  familiarity  which 
I  had  heretofore  enjoj'ed  among  them.  AVe 
cracked  some  of  our  old  jokes,  but  methought 
they  went  off  but  f aintlj^  My  old  desk ; 
the  peg  where  I  hung  my  hat  were  ap^jro- 
priated  to  another.     I  knew  it  must  be,  but 

I  could  not  take  it   kindly.     D 1   take 

me,  if  I  did  not  feel  some  remorse — beast,  if 
I  had  not — at  quitting  my  old  compeers, 
the  faithful  partners  of  my  toils  for  six-aiid- 


thirty  years,  that  smoothed  for  me  with 
their  jokes  and  coimndrums  the  ruggeduess 
of  my  professional  road.  Had  it  been  so 
rugged  tlien,  after  all  ?  or  was  I  a  coward 
simply  ?  Well,  it  is  too  late  to  repent ;  and 
I  also  know  that  these  suggestions  are  a 
common  fallacy  of  the  mind  on  such  occa- 
sions. But  my  heart  smote  me.  I  had  vio- 
lently broken  the  bands  hetwixt  us.  I  was 
at  least  not  courteous.  It  shall  be  sometime 
before  I  get  quite  reconciled  totheye^raration. 
Farewell,  old  cronies,  yet  not  for  long,  for 
again  and  again  I  will  come  among  ye,  if  I 

shall  have  your  leave.     Farewell,  Ch , 

dry,  sarcastic,  and  friendly  !     Do mild, 

slow  to  move,  and  gentlemanly !     PI , 

officious  to  do,  and  to  vohmteer,  good  serv- 
ices ! — and  thou,  thou  dreary  pile,  fit  man- 
sion for  a  Gresham  or  a  AVhittington  of 
■old,  stately  house  of  Merchants;  with  thy 
labyrinthine  passages,  and  light-excluding, 
pent-up  offices,  Avhere  candles  for  one  half  the 
year  supplied  the  place  of  the  sun's  light ; 
unhealthy  contribution  to  my  weal,  stern 
fosterer  of  my  living,  farewell !  In  thee 
remain,  and  not  in  the  obscure  collection  of 
some  wandering  bookseller,  my  "works!" 
There  let  them  rest,  as  I  do  from  my  labors, 
piled  on  thy  massy  shelves,  more  JMSS.  in 
folio  than  ever  Aquinas  left,  and  full  as 
useful!  My  mantle  I  l)equeath  among  ye. 
A  fortnight  has  passed  since  the  date  of 
my  first  communication.     At  that  period  I 


9G  ©he  ^a.-it  (B^^^p  oi  i^lm, 

was  approach! Hi;'  to  tranquillity,  but  had  not 
reached  it.  I  boasted  of  a  cahn  indeed,  but 
it  was  comparative  only.  Soiuethiug-  of  the 
first  flutter  was  left;  an  unsettling  sense  of 
novelty ;  tlio  dazzling-  to  weak  eyes  of  unac- 
customed li;j,ht.  I  missed  my  old  chains,  for- 
sooth, as  if  the}^  had  been  some  necessary 
part  of  my  apparel.  I  wns  a  poor  Carthu- 
sian, from  strict  cellular  discipline  suddenly 
by  some  revolution  returned  upon  the- 
world.  I  am  now  as  if  I  had  never  been 
other  than  my  own  master.  It  is  natural 
to  me  to  g'o  where  I  please,  to  do  Avhat  I 
please.  I  find  myself  at  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  day  in  Bond  Street,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  been  sauntering  there  at  that 
very  hour  for  years  past.  I  digress  into- 
Soho,  to  explore  a  bookstall.  31etliinks  I 
have  been  thirty  years  a  collector.  There 
is  nothing  strange  nor  new  in  it.  I  find  nv 
self  before  a  fine  i)!cture  in  the  morning 
Was  it  ever  otherwise  ?  What  is  become  of 
Fish  Street  Hill?  Where  is  Fenchurcli 
Street  ?  Stones  of  old  Mincing  Lane, 
which  I  have  Morn  with  my  daily  pilgrim- 
age for  six-and-thirty  years,  to  the  footsteps 
of  what  toil-worn  clerk  are  your  everlast- 
ing flints  now  vocal?  I  indent  the  gayer 
flags  of  Pall  :\[all.  It  is  'Change  time,  and 
I  am  strangely  among  the  Elgin  marbles. 
It  was  no  hyperbole  when  I  ventured  to 
compare  the  change  in  my  condition  to  a 
piissing  into  another  world.    Time  stands 


still  in  a  manner  to  me.  I  have  lost  all  dis- 
tinction of  season.  I  do  not  know  the  day 
of  the  week  or  of  the  month.  Each  day 
used  to  be  individually  felt  by  me  in  its 
reference  to  the  foreign  post-days ;  in  its 
distance  from,  or  propinquity  to,  the  next 
Sundaj^  I  had  my  Wednesday  feelings,  my 
Saturday  nights'  sensations.  The  genius  of 
each  day  was  upon  me  distinctly  during  the 
whole  of  it,  affecting  my  appetite,  spirits, 
etc.  The  phantom  of  the  next  day,  witli  the 
dreary  five  to  follow,  sat  as  a  load  upon 
my  poor  Sabbath  recreations.  What  charm 
has  washed  that  Ethiop  white?  What  is 
gone  of  Black  Monday  ?  All  days  are  the 
same.  Sunday  itself, — that  unfortunate 
failure  of  a  holiday,  as  it  too  often  proved, 
what  with  my  sense  of  its  fugitiveness,  and 
overcare  to  get  the  greatest  quantity  of 
pleasure  out  of  it, — is  melted  down  into  a 
weekday.  I  can  spare  to  go  to  church  now, 
without  grudging  the  hage  cantle  which  it 
used  to  seem  to  cut  out  of  the  holiday.  I 
have  Time  for  everything.  I  can  visit  a 
sick  friend.  1  can  interrupt  the  man  of 
much  occupation  when  he  is  busiest.  I  can 
insult  over  him  with  an  invitation  to  take  a 
day's  pleasure  with  me  to  Windsor  this  fine 
May  morning.  It  is  Lucretian  pleasure  to 
behold  the  ]ioor  drudges,  wliom  I  have  left 
beliind  in  tlie  world,  carking  and  caring; 
like  horses  in  a  mill,  di'udging  on  in  the 
same  eternal  round — and  what  is  it  all  for  ? 
7 


S8  ^U  g:a,$t  (t^;iAX\^^  of  (tlVA. 


A  man  can  never  have  too  much  Time  to 
himself,  nor  too  Uttle  to  do.  Had  I  a  httle 
son,  I  would  christen  him  Nothixg-to-do; 
he  should  do  nothing.  Man,  I  verily  be- 
lieve, is  out  of  his  element  as  long  as  he 
is  operative.  I  am  altogether  for  the  life 
contemplative.  "Will  no  kindly  earthquake 
come  and  swallow  up  those  accursed  cotton 
mills?  Take  me  that  lumber  of  a  desk 
there,  and  bowl  it  down 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends. 

I  am  no   longer ,  clerk   to  the 

Firm  of,  etc.  1  am  Retired  Leisure.  I  am 
to  be  met  with  in  trim  gardens.  I  am  al- 
ready come  to  be  known  by  my  vacant  face 
and  careless  gesture,  perambulating  at  no 
"fixed  pace,  nor  with  any  settled  purpose.  I 
walk  about ;  not  to  and  from.  They  tell 
me,  a  certain  cum  dignitate  air,  that  has 
been  buried  so  long  with  my  other  good 
parts,  has  begun  to  shoot  forth  in  my  per- 
son. I  grow  into  gentility  perceptibly. 
When  I  take  up  a  newspaper,  it  is  to  read 
the  state  of  the  opera.  Opus  operatum  est. 
I  have  done  all  that  I  came  into  this  world 
to  do.  I  have  worked  taskwork,  and  have 
the  rest  of  the  day  to  myself. 


®hf  i^a.st  i^^^inp  of  eiia.  99 


The  Gentee!  Style  in  Writing. 

It  is  an  ordinary  criticism,  that  my  Lord 
Shaftesbnry,  and  ^Sir  William  Temple,  are 
models  of  the  genteel  style  in  writing-.  We 
should  prefer  sayiny — of  the  lordly,  and  the 
gentlemanly.  Nothing  can  be  more  unlike, 
than  the  inflated  finical  rhapsodies  of 
Shaftesbury  and  the  plain  natural  chit-chat 
•of  Temple.  The  man  of  rank  is  discernible 
in  both  writers  ;  but  in  the  one  it  is  only 
insinuated  gracefully,  in  the  other  it  stands 
out  olfensively.  The  peer  seems  to  have 
written  with  his  corOnet  on,  and  his  Earl's 
mantle  before  him ;  the  commoner  in  his 
elbow-chair  and  undress.  What  can  be 
more  pleasant  than  the  way  in  which  the 
retired  statesman  peeps  out  in  his  essays, 
penned  by  the  latter  in  his  delightful  retreat 
at  Shene?  They  scent  of  Nimeguen,  and 
tbe  Hague.  Scarce  an  authority  is  quoted 
under  an  ambassador.  Don  Francisco  de 
Melo,  a  "  Portugal  P^nvoy  in  P^ngland,"  tells 
him  it  was  frequent  in  his  country  for  men 
spent  with  age  and  other  decays,  so  as  they 
could  not  hope  for  above  a  year  or  two  of 
life,  to  ship  themselves  away  in  a  Brazil  fleet, 


100  She  f  a^t  (g^,say,^  of  min. 


and  after  their  arrival  there  to  go  on  a  great: 
length,  sometimes  of  twenty  or  thirty  years, 
or  more,  by  the  force  of  that  vigor  tliey  re- 
covered witli  that  remove.  "  Whether  such 
an  effect  (Temple  beautifully  adds)  might 
grow  from  the  air,  or  the  fruits  of  that 
climate,  or  by  approaching  nearer  the  sun, 
whicli  is  the  fountain  of  light  and  heat, 
when  their  natural  heat  was  so  far  decayed ; 
or  whether  the  piecing  out  of  an  old  man's 
life  Avere  worth  the  pains;  I  cannot  tell: 
perhaps  the  play  is  not  worth  the  candle." 
Monsieur  Pompone,  "  French  Ambassador 
in  his  (Sir  William's)  time  at  the  Hague," 
certifies  him,  that  in  his  life  he  had  never 
heard  of  any  man  in  France  that  arrived 
at  a  hundred  years  of  age ;  a  limitation  of 
life  which  the  old  gentleman  imputes  to  the 
excellence  of  their  climate,  givhig  them  such 
a  liveliness  of  temper  and  humor,  as  disposes 
them  to  more  pleasures  of  all  kinds  than  in 
other  countries ;  and  moralizes  upon  the 
matter  very  sensibly.  The  "late  Robert, 
Earl  of  Leicester,"  furnishes  him  with  a 
story  of  a  Countess  of  Desmond,  married 
out  of  England  in  Edward  the  Fourth's 
time,  and  who  lived  far  in  King  James's 
reign.  The  "  same  noble  person  "  gives  him 
an  account,  how  such  a  year,  in  the  same 
reign,  there  went  about  the  country  a  set  of 
morris-dancers,  composed  of  ten  men  who 
danced,  a  Maid  JVIarian,  and  a  tabor  and 
piX^e ;  and  how  these  twelve,  one  with  an- 


^\\t  i:a,st  i^^^^nxp  of  mm,        101 


•other,  made  up  tAvelve  hundred  years.  "It 
was  not  so  much  (says  Temple)  that  so  many 
in  one  small  county  (Hertfordshire)  should 
live  to  that  age,  as  that  they  should  he  in 
vig'or  and  in  humor  to  travel  and  to  dance." 
Monsieur  Zulichem,  one  of  his  "colleagues 
at  the  Hague,"  informs  him  of  a  cure  for 
the  gout ;  which  is  confirmed  by  another 
"Envoy,"  Monsieur  Serinchamps,  in  that 
town,  who  had  tried  it.  Old  Prince  Maurice 
of  Nassau  recommends  to  him  the  use  of 
hammocks  in  that  complaint ;  having  been 
allured  to  sleep,  while  suffering  under  it 
himself,  by  the  "  constant  motion  or  swing- 
ing of  those  airy  beds."  't^ount  Egmont, 
and  the  TJhinegrave  who  "  v/as  killed  last 
summer  before  Macstricht,"  impart  to  him 
their  experiences. 

But  the  rank  of  the  writer  is  never  more 
innocently  disclosed,  than  where  he  takes 
for  granted  the  compliments  paid  by  for- 
eigners to  his  fruit-trees.  For  the  taste 
and  perfection  of  what  we  esteem  the  best, 
he  can  truly  say,  that  the  French,  who  have 
eaten  his  peaches  and  grapes  at  Shene  in 
no  very  ill  year,  have  generally  concluded 
that  the  last  are  as  good  as  any  they  have 
eaten  in  France  on  this  side  Fontainebleau ; 
and  the  first  as  good  as  any  they  have  eaten 
in  Gascony.  Italians  have  agreed  his  white 
figs  to  be  as  good  as  any  of  that  sort  in 
Italy,  which  is  the  earlier  kind  of  white  fig 
there ;  for  in  the  later  kind  and  the  blue, 


102     m\t  p^^i  (^^^m  oi  min. 


we  cannot  come  near  the  warm  climates,  no 
more  than  in  tlie  Frontignac  or  Muscat 
grape.  His  orange-trees,  too,  are  as  large 
as  any  he  saw  when  he  Avas  young  in  France, 
except  those  of  Fontainebleau  ;  or  what  he 
has  seen  since  in  the  Low  Countries,  except 
some  very  old  ones  of  the  Prince  of  Orange's. 
Of  grapes  he  had  the  honor  of  bringing 
over  four  sorts  into  England,  which  he  enu- 
merates, and  supposes  that  they  are  all  by 
this  time  pretty  common  among  some  gar- 
deners in  his  neighborhood,  as  well  as 
several  persons  of  quality  ;  for  he  ever 
thought  all  things  of  this  kind  "  the  com- 
moner they  are  made  the  better."  The 
garden  pedantry  with  which  he  asserts  that 
'tis  to  little  purpose  to  plant  any  of  the  best 
fruits,  as  peaches  or  grapes,  hardly,  he 
doubts,  beyond  Xorthamptonshire  at  the  far- 
thest northwards ;  and  praises  the  "  Bishop 
of  Munster  at  Cosevelt,"  for  attempting* 
nothing  beyond  cherries  in  that  cold  clim- 
ate; is  ecpially  pleasant  and  in  character. 
"  I  may  perhaps  "  (he  thus  ends  his  sweet 
Garden  Essay  with  a  passage  worthy  of 
Cowley)  "  be  allowed  to  know  something  of 
this  trade,  since  I  have  so  long  allowed  my- 
self to  be  good  for  nothing  else,  which  few 
men  will  do,  or  enjoy  their  gardens,  without 
often  looking  abroad  to  see  hoAV  other 
matters  play,  what  motions  in  the  state,  and 
what  invitations  they  may  hope  for  into 
other  scenes.     For  my  own  part,   as  the 


^U  fast  (ips'^ay^  of  ®Ua.         103. 


country  life,  and  this  part  of  it  more  par- 
ticularly, were  the  inclination  of  my  youth, 
itself,  so  they  are  the  pleasure  of  my  age ; 
and  I  can  truly  say  that,  among  many  great 
employments  that  have  fallen  to  my  share, 
I  have  never  asked  or  sought  for  any  of 
them,  but  have  often  endeavored  to  escape 
from  them,  into  the  ease  and  freedom  of  a. 
private  scene,  where  a  man  may  go  his  own 
way  and  his  own  pace  in  the  common  paths 
and  circles  of  life.  The  measure  of  choos- 
ing well  is  whether  a  man  likes  Avhat  he 
has  chosen,  which,  I  thank  God,  has  befallen 
me;  and  though  among  the  follies  of  my 
life,  building  and  planting  have  not  been, 
the  least,  and  have  cost  me  more  than  I 
have  the  confidence  to  own  ;  yet  they  have 
been  fully  recompensed  by  the  sweetness 
and  satisfaction  of  this  retreat,  where^ 
since  my  resolution  taken  of  never  entering- 
again  into  any  public  employments,  I  have 
passed  five  years  without  ever  once  going- 
to  town,  though  I  am  almost  in  sight  of  it, 
and  have  a  house  there  always  ready  to 
receive  me.  Nor  has  this  been  any  sort  of 
affectation,  as  some  have  thought  it,  but  a 
mere  want  of  desire  or  humor  to  make  so 
small  a  remove ;  for  *  when  I  am  in  this 
corner,  I  can  truly  say  with  Horace  Me 
quoties  re/iaf,  etc. 

"Me,  when  the  cold  Digenlian  stream  revives, 
What  ilocs  my  friciul  hclicve  I  think  or  ask  ? 
Let  me  yet  less  possess,  so  I  may  live, 


104       ^]\t  ^n^i  ®,&',$an,$  0t  €Ua. 


Wliate'er  of  life  remains,  unto  myself. 

May  I  have  books  enough  ;  and  one  year's  store. 

Not  to  depend  upon  each  doubtful  hour  ; 

This  is  enough  of  mighty  Jove  to  pray, 

Who,  as  he  pleases,  gives  and  takes  away." 

The  writings  of  Temple  are,  in  general, 
after  this  easy  copy.  On  one  occasion,  in- 
deed, liis  wit,  whicli  was  mostly  snV)ordinate 
to  nature  and  tenderness,  hits  seduced  him 
into  a  string  of  felicitous  antitheses  ;  which, 
it  is  obvious  to  remark,  have  been  a  model 
to  Addison  and  succeeding  essayists.  "  Who 
would  not  be  covetous,  and  with  reason," 
he  says,  "  if  health  could  be  purchased  with 
gold?  v.^lio  not  ambitious,  if  it  were  at  the 
command  of  power,  or  restored  by  honor? 
but,  alas  !  a  white  staff  will  not  help  gouty 
feet  to  Avalk  better  than  a  common  cane ; 
nor  a  blue  ribbon  bind  up  a  wound  so  well 
as  a  fillet.  The  glitter  of  gold,  or  of  dia- 
monds, will  but  hurt  sore  eyes  instead  of 
curing  them  ;  and  an  aching  head  will  be 
no  more  eased  by  wearing  a  crown  than  a 
common  nightcap." 

In  a  far  better  style,  and  more  accordant 
with  his  own  humor  of  plainness,  are  the  con- 
cluding sentences  of  his  "  Discourse  upon 
Poetry."  Temple  took  a  part  in  tlie  contro- 
versy about  the  ancient  and  the  modern  learn- 
ing ;  and,  with  that  partiality  so  natural  and 
so  graceful  in  an  old  man,  whose  state  en- 
gagements had  left  him  little  leisure  to  look 
into  modern  productions,  while  his  retire- 


5^1ic  p^'t  (J:'^',^ay.^  c?  €Uit.         105 

ment  gave  him  occasion  to  look  bade  upon 
the  classic  studies  of  his  youtli, — decided  in 
favor  of  tlie  latter.  "  Certain  it  is,"  he  says, 
"  that,  whether  the  fierceness  of  the  Gothic 
humors,  or  noise  of  their  perpetual  wars, 
frighted  it  away,  or  that  the  unequal  mixture 
of  the  modern  languages  would  not  bear  it, 
— the  great  heights  and  excellency  both  of 
poetry  and  music  fell  with  the  Eoman  learn- 
ing and  empire,  and  have  never  since  re- 
covered the  admiration  and  applauses  that 
before  attended  them.  Yet,  such  as  they 
are  amongst  us,  they  must  be  confessed  to 
be  the  softest  and  the  sweetest,  the  most  gen- 
eral and  most  innocent  amusements  of  com- 
mon time  and  life.  They  still  find  room  in 
the  courts  of  princes,  and  the  cottages  of 
shepherds.  They  serve  to  revive  and  ani- 
mate the  dead  calm  of  poor  and  idle  lives,  and 
to  allay  or  divert  the  violent  passions  and 
perturbations  of  the  greatest  and  the  busiest 
men.  And  both  these  eifects  are  of  equal 
use  to  human  life ;  for  the  mind  of  man  is 
like  the  sea,  which  is  neither  agreeable  to 
the  beholder  nor  the  voyager,  in  a  calm  or 
in  a  storm,  but  is  so  to  both  when  a  little 
agitated  by  gentle  gales  ;  and  so  the  mind, 
when  moved  by  soft  and  easy  passions  or 
affections.  I  know  very  well  that  many  who 
pretend  to  be  wise  by  the  forms  of  being 
grave,  are  apt  to  despise  both  poetry  and 
music,  as  toys  and  trifles  too  light  for  the 
use  or  entertainment  of  serious  men.    But 


106        ®hc  fa.ot  (ff^'^ay,^  of  (gU». 

whoever  find  themselves  wholly  insensible 
to  their  charms,  would,  I  think,  do  well  to 
keep  their  own  counsel,  for  fear  of  reproach- 
ing their  own  temper,  and  bringing-  the  good- 
ness of  their  natures,  if  not  of  tlieir  under- 
standings, into  question.  While  this  world 
lasts,  I  doubt  not  but  the  pleasure  and  re- 
quest of  these  two  entertainments  will  da 
so  too  ;  and  happy  those  that  content  them- 
selves Avith  these  or  any  other  so  easy  and 
so  innocent,  and  do  not  trouble  the  world  or 
other  men,  because  they  cannot  be  quiet 
themselves,  though  nobody  hurts  them." 
When  all  is  done  (he  concludes),  human  life 
is  at  the  greatest  and  the  best  but  like  a  fro- 
ward  child,  that  must  be  played  with  and 
humored  a  little,  to  keep  it  quiet,  till  it  falls 
asleep,  and  then  the  care  is  over." 


©he  pi.st  i&^^'Mp  oi  (glia.        107 


Barbara  S . 

On"  the  noon  of  tlie  14th  of  November,  1743 
or  4,  I  forg-et  which  it  was,  just  as  the  clock 
had  struclc  one,  Jiarbara  S— — ,  witli  her 
accustomed  punctuality,  ascended  the  long 
rambling-  staircase,  with  awkward  inter- 
posed landing-places,  which  led  to  the  office, 
or  rather  a  sort  of  box  with  a  desk  in  it, 
whereat  sat  the  then  Treasurer  of  (what  few 
of  our  readers  may  remember)  the  Old  Bath 
Theater.  All  over  the  island  it  was  the 
custom,  and  remains  so  I  believe  to  this  day, 
for  the  players  to  receive  their  weekly  sti- 
pend on  the  Saturday.  It  was  not  much 
that  Barbara  had  to  claim. 

This  little  maid  had  just  entered  her  elev- 
enth year  ;  but  her  important  station  at  the 
theater,  as  ijt  seemed  to  her,  with  the  bene- 
fits which  she  felt  to  accrue  from  her  pious 
application  of  her  small  earnings,  had  given 
an  air  of  womanhood  to  her  steps  and  to 
her  behavior.  You  would  have  taken  her  to 
have  been  at  least  five  years  older. 

Till  latterly  she  had  merely  been  employed 
ill  choruses,  or  where  children  were  Avanted 
to  fill  up  the  scene.    But  the  manager,  ob- 


108         ®ue  IJaist  (g.^'siay^  of  mm, 

serving  a  dilig'ence  and  adroitness  in  her 
above  her  age,  had  for  some  few  months  past 
intrusted  to  lier  the  performance  of  whole 
parts.  You  may  guess  the  self-consequence 
of  the  promoted  Barbara.  She  had  already 
drawn  tears  in  young  Arthur ;  had  rallied 
Richard  with  infantine  petulance  in  the 
Duke  o;!  York  ;  and  in  her  turn  had  rebuked 
that  petulance  when  she  was  Prince  of 
Wales.  She  would  have  done  the  elder  child 
hi  Morton's  joathetic  afterpiece  to  the  life; 
but  as  yet  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood  "  was 
not. 

Long  after  this  little  girl  was  grown  an 
aged  woman,  I  have  seen  some  of  these 
small  parts,  each  making  two  or  three  pages 
at  most,  copied  out  in  the  rudest  hand  of  the 
then  i)rompter,  who  doubtless  transcribed  a 
little  more  carefully  and  fairly  for  the  grown- 
up tragedy  ladies  of  the  establishment.  But 
such  as  they  were,  blotted  and  scrawled,  as 
for  a  child's  use,  she  kept  them  all ;  and  in 
the  zenith  of  her  after  reputation  it  vras  a 
delightful  sight  to  behold  them  bound  up  in 
costliest  morocco,  each  single,— each  small 
part  making  a  boo/,- — with  fine  clas|">s,  gilt 
splashed,  etc.  She  had  conscientiously  kept 
them  as  they  had  been  delivered  to  her  ;  not 
a  blot  had  been  effaced  or  tampered  with. 
The)^  were  precious  to  her  for  their  affecting 
remembrancings.  Tb.ey  were  her  prindjyia^ 
her  rudiments  ;  the  elementary  atoms  ;  the 
little  steps  by  which  she  pressed  forward  to 


mt  p,«t  (^^^^\p  0t  mn.      109 


perfection.  "  What,"  she  woukl  say,  "  could 
India-rubber,  or  a  pumice-stone,  have  done 
for  these  darhngs  ?  " 

I  am  in  no  hurry  to  begin  m3'"  story, — in- 
deed I  have  little  or  none  to  teli, — so  I  will 
just  mention  an  observation  of  hers  con- 
nected witli  that  interesting  time. 

Not  long  before  she  died  I  had  been  dis- 
coursing with  her  on  the  quantity  of  real  pres- 
ent emotion  which  a  great  tragic  performer 
experiences  during  acting.  I  ventured  to 
think,  that  though  in  the  flrst  instance  such 
players  must  have  possessed  the  feelings 
which  they  so  powerfully  called  up  in  others, 
yet  by  frequent  repetition  those  feelings 
must  become  deadened  in  great  measure, 
and  the  performer  trust  to  the  memory  of 
past  emotion,  rather  <than  express  a  present 
one.  She  indignantly  repelled  the  notion, 
that  with  a  truly  great  tragedian  the  oper- 
ation, by  which  such  effects  were  produced 
upon  an  audience,  could  ever  degrade  itself 
into  what  was  purely  mechanical.  With 
much  delicacy,  avoiding  to  instance  in  her 
se//'-experience,  she  told  me,  that  so  long  ago 
as  when  she  used  to  play  the  part  of  the 
Little  Son  to  Mrs.  Porter's  Isabella  (I 
think  it  was),  when  that  impressive  actress 
has  been  bending  over  her  in  some  heart- 
rending colloquy,  she  has  felt  real  hot  tears 
come  trickling  from  her,  which  (to  use  ]ier 
powerful  expression)  have  perfectly  scalded, 
her  back. 


110         5^he  fa.^it  (^^mp  of  mn. 


1  am  not  quite  so  sure  that  it  was  Mrs. 
Porter ;  but  it  was  some  great  actress  of  that 
day.  The  name  is  indifferent  ;  but  tlie  fact 
of  the  scalding  tears  I  most  distinctly  re- 
member. 

I  was  always  fond  of  the  society  of  players, 
and  am  not  sure  that  an  impediment  in  my 
speech  (which  certainly  kept  me  out  of  the 
pulpit)  even  more  than  certain  j)ersonal  dis- 
qualifications, which  are  often  got  over  in 
that  profession,  did  not  prevent  me  at  one 
time  of  life  from  adopting  it.  I  have  had 
the  honor  (I  must  ever  call  it)  once  to  have 
been  admitted  to  the  tea-table  of  Miss  Kelly. 
I  have  played  at  serious  whist  with  Mr.  Lis- 
ten. I  have  chatted  with  ever  good-humored 
Mrs.  Charles  Kemble.  I  have  conversed  as 
friend  to  friend  Math  her  accomplished  hus- 
band. I  have  been  indulged  with  a  classical 
conference  Avith  Macready ;  and  with  a  sight 
of  the  Player-picture  gallery,  at  Mr.  Ma- 
thews's, Avhen  the  kind  owner,  to  remunerate 
me  for  m.y  love  of  the  old  actors  (whom  he 
loves  so  much),  went  over  it  with  me,  sup- 
plying to  his  capital  collection,  what  alone 
the  artist  could  not  give  them — voice  ;  and 
their  living  motion.  Old  tones,  half-faded,  of 
Dodd,  and  Parsons,  and  Baddeley  have  lived 
again  for  me  at  his  bidding.  Only  Edwin  he 
could  not  restore  to  me.  I  have  supped  with 
;  but  I  am  growing  a  coxcomb. 

As  I  was  about  to  say, — at  the  desk  of  the 
then  treasurer  of  the  Old  Bath  Theater, — not 


Diamond's, — presented  herself  the  Uttle  Bar- 
bara S . 

The  parents  of  Barbara  had  been  in 
reputable  circumstances.  The  father  had 
practiced,  I  believe,  as  an  apothecar}^  in 
the  town.  But  his  practice,  from  causes 
which  I  feel  my  own  infirmity  too  sensibly 
that  Avay  to  arraign, — or  perhaps  from  that 
pure  infelicity  which  accompanies  some 
jDeople  in  their  walk  through  life,  and  wliicli 
it  is  impossible  to  lay  at  the  door  of  impru- 
dence,— was  now  reduced  to  nothing.  They 
were  in  fact  in  the  very  teeth  of  starvation, 
when  the  manager,  who  knew  and  respected 
them  in  better  days,  took  the  little  Barbara 
into  his  company. 

At  the  period  I. commenced  with,  her 
slender  earnings  were  the  sole  support  of  the 
family,  including  two  younger  sisters.  I 
must  throw  a  veil  over  some  mortifying  cir- 
cumstances. Enough  to  say,  that  her  Sat- 
urday's pittance  was  the  only  chance  of  a 
Sunday's  (generally  their  onl}^)  meal  of 
meat. 

One  thing  I  will  only  mention,  that  in 
some  child's  part,  where  in  her  theatrical 
character  she  was  to  sup  off  a  roast  fowl  (O 
joy  to  Barbara  !)  some  comic  actor,  who  was 
for  the  night  caterer  for  this  dainty — in  the 
misguided  humor  of  his  part,  threw  over  the 
dish  such  a  quantity  of  salt  (0  grief  and 
pain  of  heart  to  Barbara  !)  that  when  she 
crammed  a  portion  of  it  into  her  mouth,  she 


112         ^U  fa^t  (^:^mp  ot  (!r;U». 

was  obliged  spntteringly  to  reject  it;  and 
what  with  sliame  of  her  ill-acted  part,  and 
pain  of  real  appetite  at  missing  such  a  dainty, 
her  little  heart  sob]3ed  almost  to  breaking, 
till  a  flood  oi  tears,  v/hich  the  well-fed  spec- 
tators were  totally  unable  to  comprehend 
mercifully  relieved  her. 

This  was  the  little  starved,  meritorious 
maid,  who  stood  before  old  Ravenscroft,  the 
treasurer,  for  her  Saturday's  payment. 

Ravenscroft  was  a  man,  I  have  heard 
many  old  theatrical  people  besides  herself 
say,  of  all  men  least  calculated  for  a  treas- 
urer. He  had  no  head  for  accounts,  paid 
away  at  random,  kept  scarce  an}^  books,  and 
summing  up  at  the  week's  end,  if  he  found 
himself  a  pound  or  so  deficient,  blest  him- 
self tliat  it  was  no  worse. 

Now  Barbara's  Aveekly  stipend  Avas  a  bare 
half-guinea.  By  mistake  he  popped  into  her 
hand — a  whole  one. 

Barbara  tripped  away. 

She  was  entirely  unconscious  at  first  of 
the  mistake  :  God  knows,  Ravenscroft  would 
never  have  discovered  it. 

But  when  she  had  got  down  to  the  first  of 
those  uncouth  landing-places,  she  became 
sensible  of  an  unusual  weight  of  metal 
pressing  her  little  hand. 

Now  mark  the  dilemma. 

She  was  by  nature  a  good  child.  From 
her  parents  and  those  about  her  she  had 
imbibed  no  contrary   influence.     But  then 


they  had  taught  her  nothing.  Poor  men's 
smoky  cabms  are  not  always  porticos  of 
moral  philosophy.  This  little  maid  had  no 
instinct  to  evil,  but  then  she  might  be  said 
to  have  no  fixed  principle.  She  had  heard 
honesty  commended,  but  never  dreamed  of 
its  application  to  herself.  She  thought  of 
it  as  something  Avhich  concerned  grown-up 
people,  men  and  women.  She  had  never 
known  temptation,  or  thought  of  prej)aring 
resistance  against  it. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  go  back  to  the 
old  treasurer,  and  explain  to  him  his  blunder. 
He  was  already  so  confused  with  age  besides 
a  natural  want  of  punctuality,  that  she 
would  have  had  some  difficulty  in  making 
him  understand  it.  She  saw  that  in  an  in- 
stant. And  then  it  Avas  such  a  bit  of  money  I 
and  then  the  image  of  a  larger  allowance  of 
butcher's  meat  on  their  table  next  day  came 
across  her,  till  her  little  eyes  glistened,  and 
her  mouth  moistened.  But  then  INIr.  Ravens- 
croft  had  always  been  so  good-natured,  had 
stood  her  friend  behind  tlie  scenes,  and  even 
recommended  her  promotion  to  some  of  her 
little  i^arts.  But  again  the  old  man  was  re- 
puted to  be  worth  a  world  of  money.  He  was 
supposed  to  have  fifty  pounds  a  year  clear  of 
the  theater.  And  then  came  staring  ui)on 
her  the  figures  of  her  little  stockingless  and 
shoeless  sisters.  And  when  slie  looked  at. 
her  own  neat  white  cotton  stockings,  wliicli 
her  situation  at  the  theater  had  made,  it 


lU         ^\tt  'gn^t  it^^^nxp  of  (^Ua. 

indispensable  for  her  mother  to  provide  for 
her  with  hard  straining  and  pincliing  from 
the  family  stock,  and  thought  how  glad  she 
should  be  to  cover  their  poor  feet  Avith  the 
same,  and  how  then  they  could  accompany 
her  to  rehearsals,  Avhich  they  had  hitherto 
been  precluded  from  doing,  by  reason  of  their 
unfashionable  attire.  In  these  thoughts 
she  reached  the  second  landing-place, — the 
second,  I  mean,  from  the  top, — for  there  was 
still  another  left  to  traverse. 

Now  virtue  support  Barbara ! 

And  that  never-failing  friend  did  step  in, 
— for  at  that  moment  a  strength  not  her 
own,  I  have  heard  her  say,  was  revealed  to 
her, — a  reason  above  reasoning, — and  \A'itli- 
out  her  own  agency,  as  it  seemed  (for  she 
never  felt  her  feet  to  move),  she  found 
herself  transported  back  to  the  individual 
desk  slie  had  just  quitted,  and  her  hand  in 
the  old  hand  of  Ravenscroft,  who  in  silence 
took  back  the  refunded  treasure,  and  who 
had  been  sitting  (good  man)  insensible  to 
the  lapse  of  minutes,  which  to  her  were 
anxious  ages,  and  from  that  moment  a  deep 
peace  fell  upon  her  heart,  and  she  knew  the 
quality  of  honesty. 

A  year  or  two's  unrepining  application  to 
her  profession  brightened  up  the  feet,  and 
the  prospects,  of  her  little  sisters,  set  the 
whole  family  upon  their  legs  again,  and  re- 
leased her  from  the  difficulty  of  discussing 
moral  dogmas  upon  a  landing-place. 


I  have  heard  her  say  that  it  was  a  sur- 
prise, not  mucli  short  of  mortification  to  lier, 
to  see  tlie  coohiess  with  wliicli  tlie  old  man 
l^ocketed  tlie  diiference,  which  had  caused 
her  such  mortal  throes. 

This  anecdote  of  herself  I  had  in  the  year 
1800,  from  the  mouth  of , the  late  jMrs.  Craw- 
ford,* then  sixty-seven  years  of  age  (she 
died  soon  after),  and  to  her  struggles  upon 
this  childisli  occasion  I  have  sometimes  ven- 
tured to  think  her  indebted  for  that  power 
of  rending  the  heart  in  the  representation  of 
conflicting  emotions,  for  Avhich  in  after  years 
she  was  considered  as  little  inferior  (if  at  all 
so  in  the  part  of  Lady  Randolph)  even  to 
Mrs.  Siddons. 


*  Tlie  maiden  name  of  this  lady  was  Street,  which 
she  changed  by  successive  marriages,  for  those  of 
Dancer,  Barry,  and  Crawford.  She  was  Mi-s.  Craw- 
ford, a  third  timfe  a  widow,  when  I  knew  her. 


lit)        ehc  Xaot  ^\^,'3.aM,^'  cf  (SUa. 


The  Tombs  hi  the  Abbey. 

IX  A  LETTER  TO  K S ,  ESQ. 

Though  in  some  points  of  doctrine,  and 
perhaps  of  discipline,  I  am  diffident  of  lend- 
ing a  perfect  assent  to  tliat  church  which 
you  have  so  worthily  Jdstorijied,  yet  may  the 
ill  time  never  come  to  me,  when  with  a 
chilled  heart  or  a  portion  of  irreverent  sen- 
timent, I  shall  enter  lier  beautiful  and  time- 
hallowed  edifices.  Judge  then  of  my  mor- 
tification when,  after  attending  the  choral 
anthems  of  last  "Wednesday  at  Westminster, 
and  being  desirous  of  renewing  my  ac- 
quaintance, after  lapsed  years,  with  the 
tombs  and  antiquities  there,  I  found  myself 
excluded;  turned  out  like  a  dog,  or  some 
profane  person,  into  the  common  street, 
with"  feelings  not  very  congenial  to  the  place, 
or  to  the  solemn  service  which  I  had  been 
listening  to.     It  was  a  jar  after  that  music. 

You  had  your  education  at  "Westminster ; 
and  doubtless  among  those  dim  aisles  and 
cloisters,  you  must  have  gathered  much  of 
that  devotional  feeling  in  those  young  years,, 
on  which  your  x^urest  mind  feeds  still — and 


®hc  i:a.st  (£^^i\\p  of  i^liix.        117 


may  it  feed !  The  antiquarian  spirit,  strong 
in  you,  and  gracefully  blending  ever  Avitli 
the  religious,  may  have  been  sown  in  you 
among  those  wrecks  of  splendid  mortality. 
You  owe  it  to  the  place  of  your  education ; 
you  owe  it  to  your  learned  fondness  for  the 
architecture  of  your  ancestors ;  you  owe  it 
to  the  venerableness  of  your  ecclesiastical 
establishment,  which  is  daily  lessened  and 
called  in  question  tlirough  these  practices — ■ 
to  speak  aloud  your  sense  of  them ;  never 
to  desist  raising  your  voice  against  them 
till  they  be  totally  done  away  with  and 
abolished;  till  the  doors  of  Westminster 
Al)bey  be  no  longer  closed  against  the  de- 
cent, though  low-in-purse,  enthusiast,  or 
blameless  devotee,  who  must  commit  an  in- 
jury against  his  family  economy,  if  he  would 
be  indulged  with  a  bare  admission  Mithin 
its  walls.  You  owe  it  to  the  decencies 
which  you  wish  to  see  maintained,  in  its  im- 
pressive services,  that  our  Cathedral  be  no 
longer  an  object  of  inspection  to  the  poor  at 
those  times  only,  in  which  they  must  rob 
from  their  attendance  on  the  ■\^'()rship  every 
minute  which  they  can  bestow  upon  the 
fabric.  In  vain  the  public  prints  have  taken 
up  this  subject,  in  vain  such  poor  nameless 
writers  as  myself  express  their  indignation. 
A  word  from  you,  Sir, — a  hint  in  your  Jour- 
nal,— would  be  sufficient  to  fling  open  the 
doors  of  the  beautiful  Temple  again,  as  we 
can  remember  them  when  we  were  boys. 


118         (The  Xa.?.t  tJ!',o,ci;u;,o'  of  0:Ua. 


At  that  time  of  life  Avhat  would  the  imagin- 
ative faculty  (such  as  it  is)  in  both  of  us, 
have  suffered,  if  the  entrance  to  so  much 
reflection  had  been  obstructed  by  the  de- 
mand of  so  much  silver !  If  we  had  scraped 
it  up  to  gain  an  occasional  admission  (as 
we  certainly  should  have  done),  would  the 
sight  of  those  old  tombs  have  been  as  im- 
pressive to  us  (while  we  have  been  weighing- 
anxiously  prudence  against  sentiment)  as 
when  the  gates  stood  open  as  those  of  the 
adjacent  Park ;  when  we  could  walk  in  at 
any  time,  as  the  mood  brought  us,  for  a 
shorter,  or  longer  time,  as  that  lasted?  Is 
the  being  shown  over  a  place  the  same  as . 
silently  for  ourselves  detecting  the  genius 
of  it?  In  no  part  of  our  beloved  Abbey 
now  can  a  person  find  entrance  (out  of  ser- 
vice time)  under  the  sum  of  tiro  shlll!n(/s. 
The  rich  and  the  great  will  smile  at  the  anti- 
climax, presumed  to  lie  in  these  two  short 
words.  But  you  can  tell  them,  sir,  how 
much  quiet  Avorth,  how  much  capacity  for 
enlarged  feeling,  how  much  taste  and  genius, 
may  co-exist,  especially  in  youth,  with  a 
purse  incompetent  to  this  demand.  A  re- 
spected friend  of  ours,  during  his  late  visit 
to  the  metropolis,  presented  himself  for  ad- 
mission to  St.  Paul's.  At  the  same  time  a 
decently  clothed  man,  with  as  decent  a  wife 
and  child,  were  bargaining  for  the  same 
indulgence.  The  price  was  only  twopence 
each  person.    The  poor  but  decent    man 


(L\\e  fiist  (gja'.-say,^  ot  (»:Ua.        119 


hesitated,  desirous  to  go  in ;  but  there  were 
three  of  them,  and  he  turned  away  rehic- 
tantly.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  liave  seen  the 
tomb  of  Xelson.  Perliaps  the  interior  of 
tlie  Cathedral  was  liis  object.  But  in  the 
state  of  his  flnances,  even  sixpence  might 
reasonably  seem  too  much.  Tell  the  Aris- 
tocracy of  the  country  (no  man  can  do  it 
more  impressively)  instruct  them  of  Avhat 
value  these  insi,£^-nificant  pieces  of  money, 
these  minims  to  their  sight,  may  be  to  their 
humbler  brethren.  Shame  these  Sellers  out 
of  the  Temple.  Stifle  not  the  suggestions 
of  your  better  nature  with  the  pretext,  that 
-an  indiscriminate  admission  would  expose 
the  Tombs  to  violation.  Remember  your 
boy-days.  Did  you  ever  see,  or  hear,  of  a 
mob  in  the  Abbey,  while  it  was  free  to  all? 
Do  the  rabble  come  there,  or  trouble  their 
heads  about  such  speculations  ?  It  is  all 
that  you  can  do  to  drive  them  into  your 
churches ;  they  do  not  voluntarily  offer 
themselves.  They  have,  alas!  no  passion 
for  antiquities ;  for  tomb  of  king  or  i:)relate, 
sage  or  poet.  If  they  had,  they  would  be 
no  longer  the  rabble. 

For  forty  years  that  I  have  known  the 
Fabric,  the  only  well-attested  charge  of  vio- 
lation adduced  has  been — a  ridiculous  dis- 
memberment committed  upon  the  effigy  of 
that  amiable  spy,  ]\Iajor  ^Vndre,  And  is 
it  for  this — the  M'anton  mischief  of  some 
school-boy,  fired  perhaps  with  raw  notions 


120      m\t  fa^st  (t'^mp  of  mm, 

©f  Transatlantic  Freedom — or  the  remote 
possibility  of  such  a  mischief  occurring 
again,  so  easily  to  be  prevented  by  stationing 
a  constable  within  the  walls,  if  the  vergers 
are  incompetent  to  the  duty — is  it  upon 
such  wretched  pretenses  that  the  people  of 
England  are  made  to  pay  a  new  Peter's 
Pence  so  long  abrogated ;  or  must  content 
themselves  with  contemplating  the  ragged 
Exterior  of  their  Cathedral  ?  The  mischief 
was  done  about  the  time  that  you  were  a 
scholar  there.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
the  unfortunate  relic  i? 


^\u  Pv^f  (S$^in3^  of  mix.         121 


.Amicus  Redivivus. 

■"Where  were  ye,  Xymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ?  " 

I  DO  not  know  when  I  have  experienced  a 
stranger  sensation  tlian  on  seeing  my  old 
friend  G.  D.,  wlio  had  been  paying  nie  a 
morning  visit  a  few  Sundays  back,  at  my 
cottage  at  Islington,  upon  taking  leave,  in- 
stead of  turning  down  the  right-hand  path 
by  which  he  had  entered — with  staff  in 
hand,  and  at  noonday  deliberately  march 
right  forwards  into  the  midst  of  the  stream 
that  runs  by  us,  and  totally  disappear. 

A  spectacle  like  this  at  dusk  would  have 
been  appalling  enough;  but  in  the  broad 
open  daylight,  to  witness  such  an  unre- 
served motion  towards  self-destruction  in  a 
valued  friend,  took  from  me  all  power  of 
sj)eculation. 

How  I  found  my  feet,  I  know  not.  Con- 
sciousness was  quite  gone.  Some  spirit,  not 
my  own,  whirled  me  to  the  spot.  I  remem- 
ber nothing  but  the  silvery  apparition  of  a 
good  white  head  emerging;  nigli  which  a 
staff   (the   hand   unseen   that   wielded   it) 


122        nxt  H:ii.st  (t-^^m^  at  mm. 


pointed  upwards,  as  feeling  for  the  skies. 
In  a  moment  (if  time  was  in  tliat  time)  he 
was  on  my  shoulders,  and  I — freighted  with 
a  load  more  precious  than  his  who  bore 
Anchises. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  do  justice  to  the 
officious  zeal  of  sundry  passers-by,  who 
albeit  arriving  a  little  too  late  to  participate 
in  the  honors  of  the  rescue,  in  pliilanthropic 
shoals  came  thronging  to  communicate  their 
advice  as  to  the  recovery ;  prescribing  vari- 
ously the  application,  or  non-application,  of 
salt,  etc.,  to  tlie  person  of  the  patient.  Life 
meantime  was.  ebbing  fast  av/ay,  amidst  the 
stifle  of  conflicting  judgments,  when  one, 
more  sagacious  than  the  rest,  by  a  bright 
thought,  proposed  sending  for  the  Doctor. 
Trite  as  the  counsel  was,  and  impossible,  as 
one  should  think,  to  be  missed  on, — shall  I 
confess? — in  this  emergency  it  was  to  me  as 
if  an  Angel  had  spoken.  Great  previous  ex- 
ertions,— and  mine  had  not  been  inconsider- 
able,— are  commonly  followed  by  a  debility 
of  purpose.  This  was  a  moment  of  irresolu- 
tion. 

MoxocuLus, — for  so,  in  default  of  catch- 
mg  his  true  name,  I  choose  to  designate  the 
medical  gentleman  who  now  appeared, — is 
a  grave  middle-aged  person,  who,  without 
having  studied  at  the  college,  or  truckled  to 
the  i^dantry  of  a  diploma,  hath  employed  a 
great  portion  of  his  valuable  time  in  experi- 
mental processes  upon  the  bodies  of  unfort- 


0>hc  X:\fst  (^^^mp  ot  CJUa.         123^ 


unate  fellow-creatures,  in  whom  the  vital 
spark,  to  mere  vulgar  thinking,  would  seem 
extinct,  and  lost  forever.  He  omitted  no  oc- 
casion of  obtruding'  his  services,  from  a  case 
of  connnon  surfeit  suffocation  to  the  ignobler 
obstructions,  sometimes  induced  by  a  toa 
■willful  application  of  the  plant  cannabis  out- 
wardl3^  But  though  he  declineth  not  alto- 
^I ether  these  drier  extinctions,  his  occupation 
tendeth,  for  the  most  part,  to  water-practice; 
for  the  convenience  of  which  he  hath  judi- 
ciously fixed  his  quarters  near  the  grand  re- 
pository of  the  stream  mentioned,  where  day 
{i.nd  night,  from  his  little  watch-tower,  at  the 
atliddleton's  Head,  he  listenetli  to  detect  the 
i\'recks  of  drowned  mortality, — partly,  as  he 
fsaith,  to  be  upon  the  spot, — and  partly,  be- 
cause the  liquids  which  he  usetli  to  prescribe 
to  himself,  and  his  patients,  on  these  dis- 
tressing occasions,  are  ordinarily  more  con- 
veniently to  be  found  at  these  common  lios- 
tlcries  than  in  the  shops  and  phials  of  the 
apothecaries.  His  ear  hath  arrived  to  such 
finesse  by  practice,  that  it  is  reported  he 
can  distinguish  a  plunge  at  a  half  furlong 
distance ;  and  can  tell  if  it  be  casual  or  de- 
liberate. He  weareth  a  medal,  suspended 
over  a  suit,  originally  of  a  sad  brown,  but 
Avhich,  by  time  and  frequency  of  nightly 
divings,  has  been  dinged  into  a  true  profes- 
sional sable.  He  passeth  by  the  name  of 
Doctor,  and  is  I'cmarkable  for  wanting  his 
left  eye.    His  remedy — after  a  sufficient  ap- 


124  Q^lxt  ^a.ot  (»;,$,siuia'  of  (irlia. 


plication  of  warm  blankets,  friction,  etc.,  is 
a  simple  tumbler,  or  more,  of  the  purest 
Cognac,  with  water,  made  as  hot  as  the  con- 
valescent can  bear  it.  Where  he  flndeth,  as 
in  the  case  of  my  friend,  a  squeamish  sub- 
ject, he  condescendeth  to  be  the  taster;  and 
showeth,  by  his  own  example,  the  innocuous 
nature  of  the  prescription.  Nothing'  can  be 
more  kind  or  encouraging  than  this  proce- 
dure. It  addeth  confidence  to  the  patient, 
to  see  his  medical  adviser  go  hand  in  hand 
with  himself  in  the  remedy.  AVhen  the 
doctor  swalloweth  his  own  draught,  what 
peevish  invalid  can  refuse  to  pledge  him  in 
the  potion?  In  fine,  Moxoculus  is  a  hu- 
mane, sensible  man,  Mdio,  for  a  slender  pit- 
tance, scarce  enoiigh  to  sustain  life,  is  con- 
tent to  Avear  it  out  in  the  endeavor  to  save 
the  lives  of  others, — his  pretensions  so  mod- 
erate, that  with  difficulty  I  could  press  a 
crown  upon  him,  for  the  price  of  restoring 
the  existence  of  such  an  invaluable  creature 
to  society  as  G.  D. 

It  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  effect  of 
the  subsiding  alarm  upon  the  nerves  of  the 
dear  absentee.  It  seemed  to  have  given  a 
shake  to  memory,  calling  up  notice  after 
notice  of  all  the  providential  deliverances 
he  had  experienced  in  the  course  of  his  long 
and  innocent  life.  Sitting  up  in  my  couch, 
• — my  couch  which,  naked  and  void  of  fur- 
nitui'e  hitherto,  for  the  salutary  repose 
■which  it  administered,  shall    be   honored. 


l\\c  i:u.ot  (^^^iMp  tf  (J:liH.  125. 


with  costly  valance,  at  some  price,  and 
henceforth  bo  a  state-bed  at  Colebrook, — he 
discoursed  of  marvelous  escapes — by  care- 
lessness of  nurses — by  pails  of  gelid,  and 
kettles  of  the  boiling-  element,  in  infancy, — 
by  orchard  pranks,  and  snapping  twigs,  in 
school-boy  frolics — by  descent  of  tiles  at 
Trumpington,  and  of  heavier  tomes  at  Pem- 
broke,— by  studious  watchings,  inducing- 
frightful  vigilance, — by  want,  and  all  the 
sore  throbbings  of  the  learned  head.  Anon 
he  would  burst  out  into  little  fragments  of 
chanting — of  songs  long  ago — ends  of  de- 
liverance hymns,  not  remembered  before 
since  childhood,  but  coming  up  now,  Avhen 
his  heart  w^as  made  tender  as  a  child's — for 
the  tremor  cordis,  in  the  retrospect  of  a  re- 
cent deliverance,  as  in  a  case  of  impending 
danger,  acting  upon  an  innocent  heart,  will 
produce  a  self-tenderness,  which  we  should 
do  ill  to  christen  cowardice;  and  Shake- 
speare, in  the  latter  crisis,  has  made  his 
good  Sir  Hugh  to  remember  the  sitting  by 
liabylon,  and  to  mutter  of  shallow  rivers. 

Waters  of  Sir  Hugh  Middleton — Avhat  a 
spark  you  were  like  to  have  extinguished 
forever!  Your  salubrious  streams  to  this 
City,  for  now  near  t^yo  centuries,  would 
hardly  have  atoned  for  what  you  were  in 
a  moment  washing  away.  JMockery  of  a 
river, — liquid  artifice, — wretched  conduit! 
•henceforth  rank  with  canals  and  sluggish 
aqueducts.     Was  it  for  this,  that  smit  in 


126        (The  X-A^i  (^^^TA^  0f  min. 


boyhood  with  the  explorations  of  that  Abys- 
.sinian  traveler,  I  paced  the  vales  of  xVmwell 
to  explore  your  tributary  springs,  to  trace 
your  salutary  waters  sparkling  through 
green  Hertfordshire,  and  cultured  Enfield 
j)arks  ? — ye  have  no  sAvans — no  Xaiads — no 
river  God, — or  did  the  benevolent  hoary 
aspect  of  my  friend  tempt  ye  to  suck  him 
in,  that  ye  also  might  have  the  tutelary 
genius  of  your  waters '? 

Had  he  been  drowned  in  Cam,  there 
would  have  been  some  consonancy  in  it; 
but  what  willows  had  ye  to  wave  and  rustle 
over  his  moist  sepulture? — or,  having  no 
name^  besides  that  unmeaning  assumption 
of  eternal  novitij^  did  ye  think  to  get  one  by 
the  noble  prize,  and  henceforth  to  be  termed 
the  Stream  Dyekiax? 

"And  could  such  spacious  virtues  find  a  grave 
Beneath  the  imposthumed  bubble  of  a  wave?" 

I  protest,  George,  you  shall  not  venture 
out  again — no,  not  by  daylight — without  a 
sufficient  pair  of  spectacles, — in  your  mus- 
ing moods  especially.  Your  absence  of 
mind  Ave  have  borne,  till  your  presence  of 
body  came  to  be  called  in  question  by  it. 
You  shall  not  go  wandering  into  Euripus 
with  Aristotle,  if  we  can  help  it.  Fie,  man, 
to  turn  dipper  at  your  years,  after  your 
many  tracts  in  favor  of  sprinkling  only ! 

I  have  nothing  but  water  in  my  head  o' 
nio'hts  since  this  frightful  accident.     Some- 


mxt  |:a,$t  (^^^np  of  mux.        127 

times  I  am  with  Clarence  in  his  dream.  At 
others  I  behold  Christian  beginning-  to  sink, 
and  crying  out  to  his  good  brother  Hopeful 
(that  is,  to  me),  "  I  sink  in  deep  waters ;  the 
billows  go  over  my  head,  all  the  waves  go 
over  me.  Selah."  Then  I  have  before  me 
Palinurus,  just  letting  go  the  steerage.  I 
crj^  out  too  late  to  save.  Next  follows — a 
mournful  procession — suicidal  facef;,  saved 
against  their  will  from  drowning;  dolefully 
trailing  a  length  of  reluctant  gratefulness, 
with  ropy  weeds  pendent  from  locks  of 
watchet  hue, — constrained  Lazari, — Pluto's 
half-subjects,  stolen  fees  from  the  grave, — • 
bilking  Charon  of  his  fare.  At  their  head 
Arion — or  is  it  G.  D.  ? — in  his  singing  gar- 
ments marcheth  singly,  with  harp  in  hand, 
and  votive  garland,  which  JMachaon  (or 
Dr.  Ilawes)  snatcheth  straight,  intending 
to  suspend  it  to  the  stern  God  of  the  Sea. 
Then  follow  dismal  streams  of  Lethe,  in 
which  the  half-drenched  on  earth  are  con- 
strained to  drown  downright,  l)y  wharves 
where  Ophelia  twice  acts  her  muddy 
death. 

And,  doubtless,  there  is  some  notice  in  that 
invisible  world,  when  one  of  us  approach- 
eth  (as  my  friend  did  so  lately)  to  their 
inexorable  precincts.  When  a  soul  knocks 
once,  twice,  at  death's  door,  the  sensation 
aroused  within  the  palace  must  be  consider- 
able; and  the  grim  Feature,  by  modern 
science  so  often  dispossessed  of  his  prey, 


128         ©he  'gn^i  (^^mp  of  (gWa. 


jnust  have  learned  by  this  time  to  pity 
Tantahis. 

A  pulse  assuredly  was  felt  along  the  line 
of  the  Elysian  shades,  when  the  near  arrival 
of  G.  T>.  was  announced  by  no  equivocal 
indications.  From  their  seats  of  Asphodel 
arose  the  gentler  and  the  graver  ghosts — • 
poet,  or  historian — of  Grecian  or  of  Roman 
lore, — to  croAvn  with  unfading  chaplets  the 
half-finished  love-labors  of  their  unwearied 
scholiast.  Ilim  ]Markland  expected, — him 
Tyrwhitt  hoped  to  encounter, — him  the 
SAveet  lyrist  of  Peter  House,  whom  he  had 
barely  seen  upon  earth,  *  with  newest  airs 

prepared  to  greet ;  and  jiatron  of  the 

gentle  Christ's  boy, — who  should  have  been 
his  patron  through  life, — the  mild  Askew^ 
with  longing  aspirations  leaned  foremost 
from  liis  venerable  iEsculapian  chair,  to 
welcome  into  that  happy  company  the  ma- 
tured virtues  of  the  man,  whose  tender  scions 
in  the  boy  he  himself  upon  earth  had  so 
prophetically  fed  and  watered. 

*  <jri;AXUJM  luiUuui,  vldit. 


^U  i:a;3t  (B^^^ip  of  (Bm.  129 


Some  5onnets  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney. 

Sydney's  Sonnets — I  speak  of  the  best  of 
them — are  among  the  very  best  of  their  sort. 
They  fall  below  the  plain  moral  dignity,  the 
sanctit}',  and  high  yet  modest  spirit  of  self- 
approval,  of  Milton,  in  his  compositions  of  a 
similar  structure.  They  are  in  truth  what 
Milton,  censuring  the  Arcadia,  says  of  that- 
work  (to  which  they  are  a  sort  of  after- 
tune  or  application),  "  vain  and  amatorious  " 
enough,  yet  the  things  in  their  kind  (as  he 
confesses  to  be  true  of  the  romance)  may  be 
"  full  of  worth  and  wit."  They  savor  of  the 
Courtier,  it  nnv.it  be  allowed,  and  not  cf  the 
Coramonwealthsman.  But  Milton  was  a 
Courtier  when  he  wrote  the  Masque  at 
Ludlow  Castle,  and  still  more  a  Courtier 
Avhen  ho  composed  the  Arcade.  When  the 
national  struggle  was  to  begin,  he  becom- 
ingly cast  these  vanities  behind  him ;  and 
if  tlie  order  of  time  had  thrown  Sir  Thilip 
upon  the  crisis  which  preceded  the  Kevolu- 
tion,  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
have  acted  the  same  part  in  that  emergency, 
wliich  has  glorified  Ihe  name  of  a  later 
0 


130         ®h<j  I^its't  ^^$n\\^  0i  €\m. 


Sydney.  He  did  not  want  for  plainness  or 
boldness  of  spirit.  His  letter  on  the  French 
match  may  testify  he  conld  speak  his  mind 
freely  to  Princes.  The  times  did  not  call 
him  to  the  scaffold. 

The  Sonnets  which  we  oftenest  call  to 
mind  of  Milton  were  the  compositions  of 
his  maturest  years.  Those  of  Sydne}^, 
which  I  am  about  to  produce,  were  written 
in  the  very  heyday  of  his  blood.  They  are 
stuck  full  of  amorous  fancies — far-fetched 
conceits,  befitting  his  occupation :  for  True 
Love  thinks  no  labor  to  send  out  Thoug-hts 
upon  the  vast,  and  more  than  Indian  voy- 
ages, to  bring  home  rich  pearls,  outlandish 
wealth,  gums,  jewels,  spicery,  to  sacrifice  in 
self-depreciatiug  similitudes,  as  shadows  of 
true  amiabilities  in  the  Beloved,  We  must 
be  Lovers — or  at  least  the  cooling  touch  of 
time,  the  circum  pra'cordla  frigus  must  not 
have  so  damped  our  faculties,  as  to  take 
away  our  recollection  that  we  were  once  so 
— before  we  can  duly  appreciate  the  glorious 
vanities,  and  graceful  hyperboles,  of  the 
passion.  The  images  which  lie  before  our 
feet  (tlDugii  by  some  accounted  the  only 
natural)  are  least  natural  for  the  high  Syd- 
nean  love  to  express  its  fancies  by.  They 
may  serve  for  the  loves  of  Tibullus,  or  the 
dear  Author  of  the  Schoolmistress;  for  pas- 
sions that  creep  and  whine  in  Elegies  and 
Pastoral  Ballads.  I  am  sure  Milton  never 
loved  at  this   rate,     I  am  afraid  some  of 


^\H  i:as.t  (^!^$n\p  of  mm,         131 


ills  addresses  {ad  Leonoram  I  mean)  have 
rather  erred  on  the  farther  side ;  and  that 
the  poet  came  not  much  short  of  a  reUgious 
hiclecorum,  when  he  could  thus  a^jostrophize 
a  singmg  girl : — 

Angelas  unicuique  smis  (sic  credite  gentes) 

Obtigit  tethereis  ales  ab  ordinibus. 
Quid  miiuim,  Leonora,  tibi  si  gloria  major, 

Xani  tua  prtesentem  vox  sonat  ipsa  Deum  2 
Aut  Dens,  aut  vacui  certe  mens  tertia  coeli, 

Per  tua  secreto  guttura  serpit  agens  ; 
Serpit  agens,  facilisque  docet  mortalia  corda 

Sensim  immortali  assuesc<n'e  posse  sono. 
Quod  si  cuncta  quidem  Deus  est,  per  cuxcta- 

QUE  Fusrs, 
In  te  una  loquitur,  cetera  mutus  iiabet. 

This  is  loving  in  a  strange  fashion;  and  it 
requires  some  candor  of  construction  (be- 
sides the  slight  darkening  of  a  dead  lan- 
guage) to  cast  a  veil  over  the  ugly  appear- 
ance of  something  very  like  blasphemy  in 
the  last  two  verses.  I  think  the  Lover 
would  have  been  staggered,  if  he  had  gone 
about  to  express  the  same  thought  in  Eng- 
lish, I  am  sure  Sydney  has  no  flights  like 
this.  His  extravaganzas  do  not  strike  at 
the  sky,  though  he  takes  leave  to  adopt  the 
pale  Dian  into  a  fellowship  with  his  mortal 
passions. 


Wltli  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  cHinb'st  the  skies; 
How  silently;  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What!  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 


132        5:hc  ^i».st  (t^r^^nyp  ai  mm. 

Sure,  if  that  lon2;-witli-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;  thy  languislit  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  tliey  be? 
Do  tlie  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there — iingratefulnoiS  ! 

The  last  line  of  this  poem  is  a  little 
obscured  by  transposition.  He  means,  Do 
they  call  ungratefulness  there  a  virtue? 


Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting  place  of  wit,  tlie  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease* 
Of  those  tierce  darts  despair  at  me  doth  throw; 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease: 

1  Avill  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  sweet  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right. 
Move  not  thy  lieavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


The  curious  wits,  seeing  dull  pensiveness 
Bewray  itself  in  my  long-settled  eyes. 
Whence  those  same  fumes  of  melancholy  rise, 
With  idle  pains,  and  missing  aim,  do  guess. 
Some,  that  know  how  my  spring  I  did  address. 
Deem  that  my  Muse  some  fruit  of  knowledge  plies 
Others,  because  the  Prince  my  service  tries, 

*  Press, 


©he  fast  (t^^^iixp  of  («;liit.  133 


Think,  that  I  think  state  errors  to  recli-ess; 
But  hariler  judsies  judge,  ambition's  rage. 
Scourge  of  itself,  still  climbing  slippery  place, 
Holds  my  young  brain  captived  in  golden  cage. 
O  fools,  or  overvvise!  alas,  the  race 
Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  neither  stop  nor  start, 
But  only  Stella's  eyes,  and  Stella's  heart. 

IV. 

TBecause  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise 
Seem  most  alone  in  greatest  company. 
With  dearth  of  words  or  answers  cpiite  awry 
To  them  that  would  make  speech  of  speech  arise 
They  deem,  and  of  their  doom  the  rumor  flies, 
That  poison  foul  of  bubbling  Pride  doth  lie 
So  in  my  swelling  breast,  that  only  I 
Fawn  on  myself,  and  others  do  despise; 
Yet  Pride,  I  think,  doth  not  my  soul  possess 
Which  looks  too  oft  in  his  unflattering  glass; 
But  one  worse  faidt — Amhifinn — I  confess. 
That  makes  me  oft  my  best  friends  overpass. 
Unseen,  unheard — while  I'hought  to  highest  place 
Bends  all  his  power.j,  even  unto  Stella's  grace. 


Having  this  day,  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance, 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize, 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes, 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  .sweet  enemy, — France. 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance; 
Townsfolk  my  strength;  a  daintier  judge  applies 
His  praise  to  slight,  which  from  good  use  doth  rise; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them,  who  did  excel  in  this, 
Think  Nature  mt>  a  man  of  arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry !  the  true  cause  is, 
■STELiiA  looked  on,  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my  race. 


134        (Thf  ^n^i  (^^^nxp  at  (SHa. 


In  martial  sports  I  had  my  cunning  tried, 
And  yet  to  bi-eak  more  staves  did  me  address, 
While  with  the  people's  shouts  {I  must  confess) 
Youtli,  hick,  and  praise,  even  fill'd  my  veins  witti 

pride — 
"Wlien  Cupid  having  me  (liis  slave)  descried 
In  Mars' s  livery,  ]jrancing  in  the  press, 
"  What  now,  ^ir  Fool  ?  "  said  he:  "  I  would  no  less; 
Look  here,  I  say."     I  look'd,  and  Stella  spied, 
Who  hard  by  made  a  window  send  forth  light. 
My  heart  then  quaked,  then  dazzled  wei-e  mine  eyes. 
One  hand  forgot  to  rule,  th'  other  to  fight; 
Nor  trumpet's  sound  I  heard,  nor  frieiully  cries. 
My  foe  came  on,  and  beat  the  air  for  me — 
Till  that  her  blush  made  me  my  shame  to  see. 


"No  more,  my  dear,  no  more  thesfe  counsels  try; 

0  give  my  passions  leave  to  run  their  race; 
Let  Fortune  lay  on  me  her  worst  disgrace; 

Let  folk  overcharged  with  brain  against  me  cry; 
Let  clouds  bedim  my  face,  break  in  mine  eye; 
Let  me  no  steps,  but  of  lost  labor,  trace; 
Let  all  the  eartli  with  scorn  recount  my  case, — 
But  do  not  will  me  from  my  love  to  fly. 

1  do  not  envy  Aristotle's  wit. 

Nor  do  aspire  to  Ca;sar's  bleeding  fame; 
Nor  aught  do  cai-e,  though  some  above  me  sit; 
Nor  hope,  nor  wish,  another  course  to  frame, 
But  that  which  once  may  win  thy  cruel  heart 
Thou  art  my  wit,  and  thoa  my  virtue  art. 

VII  r. 

Love  still  a  boy,  and  oft  a  wanton,  is,     \ 
School'd  only  by  his  mother's  tender  eye; 
What  wonder  then,  if  he  his  lesson  miss, 
W^hen  for  so  soft  a  rod  dear  jilay  he  try  ?     • 
And  yet  my  Stak,  because  a  sugar' d  kiss 


(The  p.^t  <g.$',$ay,s  of  min,         135- 


In  sport  I  suck'd,  while  she  asleep  did  lie, 
Doth  lour,  nay  chide,  nay  threat,  for  only  this. 
Sweet,  it  was  saucy  Love,  not  humble  I. 
But  no  'sense  serves;  she  makes  her  w'rath  appear 
In  beauty's  throne, — see  now  who  dares  come  near,. 
Those  scarlet  judges,  threat'ning  bloody  pain? 
O  heav'nly  Fool,  thy  most  kiss-worthy  face 
Anger  invests  with  such  a  lovely  grace, 
That  auger's  self  I  needs  must  kiss  again. 


I  never  drank  of  Aganippe  well. 

Nor  ever  did  in  shade  of  Tempe  sit. 

And  Muses  scorn  with  vulgar  brains  to  dwell ; 

Poor  layman  I,  for  sacred  rites  unfit. 

Some  do  I  hear  of  Poet's  fury  tell. 

But  (God  wot)  wot  not  what  they  mean  by  it ; 

And  this  I  swear  by  blackest  brook  of  hell, 

I  am  no  pick-purse  of  another's  wit. 

How  falls  it  then,  that  with  so  smooth  an  ease 

My  thoughts  I  speak,  and  M'hat  I  speak  doth  flow 

In  verse,  and  that  my  verse  best  wits  doth  please? 

Guess  me  the  cause — what  is  it  thus  ? — fye,  no. 

Or  so  ? — much  les;s.     How  then  ?  sure  thus  it  is, 

jNIy  lips  are  sweet,  inspired  with  Stella's  kiss. 


Of  all  the  kings  that  ever  here  did  reign, 
Edward,  named  Foui'th,  as  first  in  praise  I  name, 
Not  for  his  fair  outside,  nor  well-lined  brain, — 
Although  less  gifts  imp  feathers  oft  on  Fame. 
Nor  that  he  could,  young-wise,  wise-valiant,  frame' 
His  sire's  revenge,  join'd  with  a  kingdom's  gain. 
And,  gain'd  by  Mars  could  yet  mad  Mars  so  tame. 
That  Balance  weigh'd  what  Sword  did  late  obtain.. 
Nor  that  he  made  the  Floure-de-luce  so  'fraid, 
Though  strongly  hedged  of  bloody  Lions'  paws, 
That  witty  Lewis  to  him  a  tribute  paid. 
Nor  this,  nor  that,  nor  any  such  small  cause, — 


136         ^hc  ^aist  (^^mp  of  (gUa. 


But  only,  for  this  worthy  knight  durst  prove 
To  lose  his  crowu  rather  than  fail  his  love. 


0  happy  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear, 

1  saw  thyself,  with  many  a  smiling  line 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face,  Joy's  livery  wear. 
While  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams  did  shine; 
The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  forbear, 
While  wanton  winds,  with  beauty  so  divine 
Kavish'd,  stay'd  not,  till  in  her  golden  hair 
They  did  themselves  (O  sweetest  prison)  twine. 
And  fain  those  ^'Eol's  youth  there  Mould  their  stay- 
Have  made;  but  forced  i)y  nature  still  to  fly. 
First  did  with  putting  kiss  those  locks  display. 
She,  so  disheveird,  blush'd;  from  window  I 
AVith  sight  thereof  cried  out,  O  fair  disgrace, 

X<et  honor's  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place! 


Highway,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be; 
And  that  my  31u^e,to  some  ears  not  uusweet, 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet, 
More  soft  than  to  a  chamber  melody; 
Now  blessed  You  bear  onward  blessed  Me 
To  Her,  where  1  my  heart  safe  left  shall  meet, 
My  ]\Iuse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  Avishing  thankfully, 
Be  you  still  fair,  honord  by  public  heed. 
By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot; 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed. 
And  that  you  know,  I  envy  you  no  lot 
Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss. 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss. 

Of  the  foregoing,  the  first,  the  second  and 
the  last  sonnets  are  my  favorites.  But  tlie 
general  beauty  of  them  all  is,  that  they  are 


m\t  fa^t  €^^n\\^  of  mux,         137 


so  perfectly  cliaracteristical.  The  spirit  of 
"  learning  and  of  cliivalr}^" — of  which  union, 
Spenser  lias  entitled  Sydney  to  have  been 
the  "  president," — shines  through  them.  I 
confess  I  can  see  nothing  of  the  "  jejune  " 
-or  "  frigid  "  in  them  ;  much  less  of  the  "stiff" 
and  "  cumbrous," — which  I  have  sometimes 
heard  objected  to  the  Arcadia.  The  verse 
runs  off  swiftly  and  gallantly.  It  might 
have  been  tuned  to  the  trumpet ;  or  tem- 
pered (as  himself  .expresses  it)  to  "tramp- 
ling horses'  feet."  They  abound  in  felici- 
tous phrases, — 

O  lieav'nly  Fool,  tliy  moit  kiss-v>ortliy  face — 

Elyldk  ijunnet. 

Sweet  pillows,  sweetest  bed  ; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light  ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 

Second  Sonnet. 

That  sweet  enemy, — France — 

Fi/lh  Sonnet. 

But  they  are  not  rich  in  words  only,  in 
vague  and  unlocalized  feelings, — the  failing 
too  much  of  some  poetry  of  the  present  day, 
■ — they  are  full,  material,  and  circumstan- 
tiated. Time  and  place  appi'opriates  every 
one  of  them.  It  is  not  a  fever  of  passion 
Avasting  itself  upon  a  thin  diet  of  dainty 
words,  but  a  transcendent  passion  iK'rvadmg 
and  illuminating  action,  pursuits,  ..tudies, 
feats  of  arms,  the  opinions  of  contempora- 
ries and  his  judgment  of  them.  An  liis- 
torical  thread   runs  through   them,  which 


138      2;uc  f  a.$t  (^^^n\p  of  mi^. 

almost  affixes  a  date  to  them,  marks  the 
'whe?i  and  where  they  wei'e  written, 

I  have  dwelt  the  longer  upon  what  I  con- 
ceive the  merit  of  these  poems,  because  I  have 
been  hurt  by  the  wantonness  (I  wish  I  could 
treat  it  by  a  gentler  name)  with  which  W. 
H.  takes  every  occasion  of  insulting  the 
memory  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney.  But  the- 
decisions  of  the  Author  of  Table  Talk,  etc> 
(most  profound  and  subtle  where  they  are, 
as  for  tlie  most  part,  just),  are  most  safely 
to  be  relied  upon,  on  subjects  and  authors 
he  has  a  partiality  for,  than  on  such  as- 
he  has  conceived  an  accidental  prejudice 
against.  Milton  wrote  Sonnets,  and  was  a 
king-hater;  and  it  was  congenial  perhaps 
to  sacrifice  a  courtier  to  a  patriot.  But  I 
was  unwihing  to  lose  a  ^fine  idea  from  my 
mind.  Tlie  noble  images,  passions,  senti- 
ments, and  poetical  delicacies  of  character, 
scattered  all  over  the  Arcadia  (spite  of  some 
stiffness  and  encamberment),  justify  to  me 
the  character  which  his  contemporaries  have 
left  us  of  the  writer.  I  cannot  think  with 
the  Critic,  that  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  that 
opprobrious  thing  Avhich  a  foolish  nobleman 
in  his  insolent  hostility  chose  to  term 
him.  I  call  to  mind  the  epitapli  made  on 
him,  to  guide  me  to  juster  thoughts  of  him  ; 
and  I  re]iose  upon  the  beautiful  lines 
in  the  "  Friend's  Passion  for  his  Astrophel," 
printed  with  the  Elegies  of  Spenser  and 
others. 


5^hc  ^a^t  (^^siay,5i  of  (B\m,        139- 

*'  You  knew — who  knew  not  Astrophel  ? 

(Tliat  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew. 

Anil  have  not  in  possession  still  !) — ■ 

Things  known  peimit  me  to  renew — 

Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such, 

1  cannot  say — you  hear — too  much. 

*'  Within  these  woods  of  Arcady 
He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took  ; 
And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  biook, 
The  muses  met  him  every  day, 
That  taught  him  sing,  to  write,  and  say. 

"  When  he  descended  down  the  mount, 
His  personage  seemed  mo?t  divine  : 
A  thousand  gi'aces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak,  and  sweetly  smile. 

You  were  in  Pai'adise  the  while. 

"  A  svjcet  altracthe  kind  of  f/rarr  ; 

A  full  assurance  gh-cn  by  looks  ; 

Continued  comfort  in  a  face, 

Tlie  lineaments  of  Gospel  books — 
I  trow  that  count'nance  cannot  lye, 
AVhose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye^ 
****** 
*'  Above  all  others  this  is  he, 

Which  erst  approved  in  his  song. 

That  love  and  honor  might  agree, 

And  that  pui'e  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
SM'cet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  mime, 

*'  Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 

In  any  mortal  breast  before: 

Did  never  ^luse  inspire  beneath 

A  Poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 

He  wrote  of  Love  with  high  conceit, 
And  Beauty  rear'd  above  her  height." 


140         ^u  T;n^t  m^nw^  of  min. 


Or  let  any  one  read  the  deeper  sorrows 
(grief  running  into  rage)  in  the  Poem, — the 
last  in  the  collection  accompanying  the 
above, — which  from  internal  testimony  I 
believe  to  be  Lord  Brooke's, — beginning 
with  "  Silence  augmenteth  grief," — and  then 
seriously  ask  himself,  whether  the  subject 
of  such  absorbing  and  confounding  regrets 
could  have  been  f/mt  thin<j  which  Lord 
Oxford  termed  huu. 


B\t  ITa^t  (^^^Rxp  of  (gliiu         1^x1 


Newspapers  Thirty=FIve  Years 
Ago. 

Bax  Stuakt  once  told  ns,  that  he  did 
not  remember  that  he  ever  dehberately 
walked  into  tlie  Exhibition  at  Somerset 
House  in  his  life.  He  might  occasionally 
have  escorted  a  party  of  ladies  across  the 
way  that  were  going  in ;  but  he  never  went 
in  of  his  own  head.  Yet  the  office  of  The 
Morning  Post  newspaper  stood  then  just 
where  it  does  now, — we  are  carrying  you 
back,  Reader,  some  thirty  years  or  more, — • 
with  its  gilt-globe-topt  front  facing  that 
emporium  of  our  artists'  grand  Annual 
Exposure.  We  sometimes  wish  that  we  had 
observed  the  same  abstinence  with  Daniel. 

A  word  or  two  of  D.  S.  He  ever  appeared 
to  us  one  of  the  finest-tempered  of  Editors. 
Perry,  of  The  3Iorning  Chronicle,  was 
equally  pleasant,  with  a  dash,  no  sliglit  one 
either,  of  the  courtier.  S.  was  frank,  plain, 
and  English  all  over.  We  have  ^^'orked  for 
both  these  gentlemen. 

It  is  soothing  to  contemplate  the  head  of 
the  Ganges ;  to  trace  the  first  little  bubblings 
of  a  mighty  river, 


142         (The  ^ast  (^$^n\p  of  (glia. 


■"  WiLli  holy  reverence  to  approach  the  rocks, 

Whence  glide   the   streams   renowned   in  ancient 
song." 

Fired  with  a  perusal  of  tlie  Abyssinian 
Pilgrim's  exploratory  ramblings  after  the 
cradle  of  the  infant  Nilus,  we  well  remem- 
ber on  one  fine  summer  holiday  (a  "whole 
day's  leave  "  we  called  it  at  Christ's  IIos- 
l">ital)  sallying  forth  at  rise  of  sun,  not  very 
well  provisioned  either  for  such  an  under- 
taking, to  trace  the  current  of  the  New 
River — Middletonian  stream ! — to  its  scatu- 
rieiit  source,  as  we  had  read,  in  meadows  by 
fair  Amwell.  Gallantly  did  we  commence 
our  solitary  quest, — for  it  was  essential  to 
the  dignity  of  a  Disco veky,  that  no  eye  of 
schoolboy,  save  our  own,  should  beam  on 
the  detection.  By  flowery  spots,  and  verdan  fc 
lanes  skirting  Ilornsey,  Hope  trained  us  on 
in  many  a  baffling  turn;  endless,  hopeless 
meanders,  as  it  seemed;  or  as  if  the  jealous 
waters  had  dodr/ed  us,  reluctant  to  have  the 
humble  spot  of  their  nativity  revea,led;  till 
spent,  and  nigh  famished,  before  set  of  the 
same  sun,  wc  sat  down  somewhere  by  Bowes 
Farm  near  Tottenham,  with  a  tithe  of  our 
proposed  labors  only  yet  accomplished ; 
sorely  convinced  in  spirit,  that  Brucian 
enterprise  was  as  yet  too  arduous  for  our 
young  shoulders. 

Not  more  refreshing  to  the  thirsty  curi- 
osity of  the  traveler  is  the  tracing  of  some 
mighty  waters  up  to  their  shallow  fontlet, 


(The  3^a^t  (^^^m\^  ttt  miix,        143 


than  it  is  to  a  pleased  and  candid  reader  to 
go  back  to  the  inexperienced  essays,  the  first 
callow  fights  in  autliorship,  of  some  estab- 
lished name  in  literature ;  from  the  Gnat 
Avliich  preluded  to  the  yEneid,  to  the  Duck 
which  .Samuel  Johnson  trod  on. 

In  those  days  every  Mornin'g  Paper,  as  an 
essential  retainer  to  its  establishment,  kept 
an  autlior,  who  was  bound  to  furnish  daily 
a  quantity  of  witty  paragraphs.  Sixpence 
a  joke — and  it  was  thought  pretty  high  too 
— was  Dan  Stuart's  settled  remuneration  in 
these  cases.  The  chat  of  the  diij,  scandal, 
but,  above  all,  dress,  furnished  the  material. 
The  length  of  no  paragraph  was  to  exceed 
seven  lines.  Shorter  they  might  be,  but 
they  must  be  poignant. 

A  fashion  oi^flesJi,  or  rather  ^^//^/i-colored 
hose  for  the  ladies,  luckily  coming  up  at  the 
juncture  when  we  were  on  our  probation 
for  the  i)lace  of  Chief  Justice  to  S.'s  Paper, 
estaljlisliod  our  reputation  in  that  line.  Wo 
were  pronounced  a  "  capital  hand."  O  the 
conceits  wliich  we  varied  upon  red  in  all  its 
prismatic  differences !  from  the  trite  and 
obvious  flower  of  Cytherea,  to  the  flam- 
ing costume  of  the  lady  that  has  her  sit- 
ting upon  "many  M'aters."  Then  there 
was  the  collateral  topic  of  ankles.  What 
an  occasion  to  the  truly  chaste  writer,  like 
ourself,  of  touching  that  nice  brink,  and 
yet  never  tumbling  over  it,  of  a  seemingly 
-ever  approximating  something  "not  quite 


144        (TU?  1:11.01  (Jr^'.oay,^  of  (S'lJa. 

proper ; "  while,  like  a  skillful  posture-master, 
balancing  betwixt  decorums  and  their  oppo- 
sites, he  k;eeps  the  line,  from  which  a  hairs- 
breadth  deviation  is  destruction;  hovering 
in  the  confines  of  light  and  darkness,  or 
where  "both  seem  either;"  a  hazy  uncer- 
tain delicacy;  Autolycus-like  in  the  Play, 
still  putting  off  his  ex2:)ectant  auditory  with 
"  "Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man !  "  But 
above  all,  that  conceit  arrided  us  most  at 
that  time,  and  still  tickles  our  midriff  to  re- 
member, Avhere,  allusively  to  the  flight  of 
Astrrea — ultima  Ccelestiim  terras  reliquit — 
we  pronounced — in  reference  to  the  stock- 
ings still — that  jModesty,  taking  her  fIxal 

LEAVE  OP  MOllTALS,  IITCK  LAST  BlUSII  WAS 
TISIDLE  IN  IIi:U  ASCEXT  TO  THE  IIeAVENS  BY 
THE  TIIACT    OP    TUB    GLOWING    INSTEP,       Tllis 

might  be  called  the  crowning  conceit;  and 
was  -esteemed  tolerable  writing  in  those 
days. 

But  the  fashion  of  jokes,  with  all  other 
things,  passes  away ;  as  did  the  transient 
mode  which  had  so  favored  us.  The  ankles 
of  our  fair  friends  in  a  few  weeks  began  to 
reassumo  their  whiteness,  and  left  us  scarce 
a  leg  to  stand  upon.  Other  female  whims 
followed,  but  none  methought  so  pregnant, 
so  invitatory  of  shrewd  conceits,  and  more 
than  single  meanings. 

Somebody  lias  said,  that  to  swallow  six 
cross-buns  daily,  consecutively  for  a  fort- 
night, would  surfeit  the  stoutest  digestion. 


^ht  g^a^t  (^^^'A\p  of  mm.         145 


But  to  have  to  furnish  as  many  jokes  daily, 
and  that  not  for  a  fortnight,  but  for  a  long 
twelvemonth,  as  we  were  constrained  to  do, 
was  a  little  harder  exaction.  "  Man  goeth 
forth  to  his  work  until  the  evening," — from 
a  reasonable  hour  in  the  morning,  we  pre- 
sume it  was  meant.  Now,  as  our  main  occu- 
pation took"  us  up  from  eight  till  five  every 
day  in  the  City ;  and  as  our  evening  hours, 
at  that  time  of  life,  had  generally  to  do  with 
anything  rather  than  business,  it  follows, 
that  the  only  time  we  could  spare  for  this 
manufactory  of  jokes — our  supplementary 
livelihood,  that  supplied  us  in  every  want 
beyond  mere  bread  and  cheese — was  exactly 
that  part  of  the  day  which  (as  we  have  heard 
of  Xo  Plan's  Land)  may  be  fitly  denominated 
No  Man's  Time;  that  is,  no  time  in  which  a 
man  ought  to  be  nj),  and  awake,  in.  To 
speak  more  plainly,  it  is  that  time  of  an 
hour,  or  an  hour  and  a  half's  duration,  in 
Avhich  a  man,  whose  occasions  call  him  uj) 
so  preposterouslv,  has  to  wait  for  his  break- 
fast. 

O  those  headaches  at  dav/n  of  day,  when 
at  five,  or  h:ilf-past  five,  summer  and  not 
much  later  in  the  dark  seasons,  we  v^ere 
compelled  to  rise,  having  been  perhaps  not 
above  four  hours  in  bed, — (for  we  were  no 
go-to-beds  with  the  lamb,  though  we  anti- 
cipated the  lark  ofttimes  in  her  rising, — we 
like  a  parting  cup  at  midnight,  a;;  all  young 
men  did  before  these  effeminate  times,  and 
10 


146         mxt  p5t  (^.^.-say.^  of  ff^lia. 

to  have  our  friends  about  us, — -we  yrere  not 
constellated  under  Aquarius,  that  watery- 
sign,  and  therefore  inca|)able  of  Bacchus, 
cold,  washy,  bloodless, — we  were  none  of 
your  Basilian  water-sponges,  nor  had  taken 
our  degrees  at  Mount  -Vgue, — we  were  right 
toping  Capulets,  jolly  companions,  we  and 
they) — but  to  have  to  get  up,  as  we  said 
before,  curtailed  of  half  our  fair  sleep,  fast- 
ing, Avith  only  a  dim  vista  of  refreshing 
bohea,  in  the  distance, — to  be  necessitated  to 
rouse  ourselves  at  the  detestable  rap  of  an 
old  hag  of  a  domestic,  who  seemed  to  take 
a  diabolical  pleasure  in  her  announcement 
that  it  was  "  time  to  rise ; "  and  whose 
chappy  knuckles  we  have  often  yearned 
to  amputate,  and  string  them  up  at  our 
chamber-door,  to  be  a .  terror  to  all  such 
unseasonable  rest-breakers  in  future— 

"  Facil "  and  sweet,  as  Virgil  sings,  had 
been  the  "  descending "  of  the  overnight, 
balmy  the  first  sinking  of  the  heavy  head 
upon  the  pillow  ;  but  to  get  up,  as  he  goes 
on  to  say, 

— "  revocare  gracilis,  siiperasque  evadere  ad  auras  "— 

and  to  get  up  moreover  to  make  jokes  with 
malice  prepended, — there  was  the  "  labor," 
there  the  "  work." 

No  Egyptian  taskmaster  ever  devised  a 
slavery  like  to  that,  our  slavery.  No  frac- 
tious operants  ever  turned  out  for  half  the 


tyranny  which  this  necessity  exercised  upon 
us.  Half  a  dozen  jests  in  a  day  (bating 
Sundays  too),  why,  it  seems  nothing !  We 
mal^e  twice  tlie  number  every  day  in  our 
lives  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  claim  no 
Sabbatical  exemptions.  But  then  they  come 
into  our  head.  But  when  the  head  has  to 
go  out  to  them, — when  the  mountain  nmst 
go  to  Mahomet, — 

Reader,  try  it  for  once,  only  for  one  short 
twelvemonth. 

It  was  not  every  week  that  a  fashion  of 
pink  stockings  came  up;  but  mostly,  in- 
stead of  it,  some  rugged,  untractable  sub- 
ject ;  some  topic  impossible  to  be  contorted 
into  the  risible ;  some  feature,  upon  which 
no  smile  could  play  ;  some  flint,  from  Avhich 
no  process  of  ingenuity  could  procure  a 
scintillation.  Tliere  they  lay ;  there  your 
appointed  tale  of  brick-making  was  set  be- 
fore you,  which  you  must  finish,  AYitli  or 
Avithout  straw,  as  it  happened.  The  crav- 
ing Dragon, — the  Public., — like  him  in  Bel's 
temple, — nuist  be  fed  ;  it  expected  its  daily 
rations ;  and  Daniel,  and  ourselves,  to  do 
us  justice,  did  the  best  Ave  could  on  this  side 
bursting  him. 

While  we  were  wringing  out  coy  sprightli- 
nesses  for  The  Post,  and  writhing  under 
the  toil  of  what  is  called  "  easy  writing," 
Bob  Allen,  our  quondam,  schoolfellow,  was 
tapping  his  impractical)le  brains  in  a  like 
service  for  the  "  Oracle."     Not  that  Robert 


148        ©he  i^a^t  e!;&'^ay^  of  min, 

troubled  himself  much  about  wit.  If  his-, 
paragraphs  had  a  sprightly  air  about  them, 
it  was  sufficient.  He  carried  this  nonchal- 
ance so  far  at  last,  that  a  matter  of  intelli- 
gence, and  that  no  very  important  one,  was 
not  seldom  palmed  upon  his  employers  for 
a  good  jest ;  for  example  sake, — "  Walking 
yesterday  morning  casualhj  doxcn  Snow  Hilly 
toho  should  tee  meet  but  Mr.  Deputy  Ilwn- 
pJiregs !  we  rejoice  to  add^  that  the  worthy 
Dejyutij  appeared  to  enjoy  a  good  state  o^f 
health.  We  do  not  ever  remember  to  have 
seen  him  look  better.''''  This  gentleman  so 
surprisingly  met  upon  Snow  Hill,  from  some 
peculiarities  in  gait  or  gesture,  was  a  con- 
stant butt  for  mirth  to  the  small  paragraph- 
mongers  of  the  day  ;  and  our  friend  thought 
that  he  might  have  his  fling  at  him  with 
the  rest.  We  met  A.  in  Ilolborn  shortly 
after  this  extraordinary  rencounter,  which 
he  told  with  tears  of  satisfaction  in  his 
eyes,  and  chuckling  at  the  anticipated  ef- 
fects of  its  announcement  next  day  in  the 
paper.  We  did  not  quite  comprehend  where 
the  wit  of  it  lay  at  the  time  ;  nor  was 
it  easy  to  be  detected,  when  the  thing  came 
out  advantaged  by  type  and  letterpress. 
He  had  better  have  met  anything  that  morn- 
ing than  a  Common  Councilman.  His  serv- 
ices were  shortly  after  dispensed  with,  on 
the  plea  that  his  paragraphs  of  late  liad 
been  deficient  in  j^oint.  The  one  in  ques- 
tion, it  must  be  owned,  had  an  air,  in  the 


^\\c  l^a.s't  (^^^mp  0f  (Kliu.         149 


-opening  especially,  proper  to  awaken  curi- 
osity ;  and  the  sentiment,  or  moral,  wears 
the  aspect  of  humanity  and  good  neigh- 
borly feeling.  But  somehow  the  conclu- 
sion was  not  judged  altogether  to  answer 
to  the  magnificent  promise  of  the  premises. 
We  traced  our  friend's  pen  afterwards  in 
the  "  True  Briton,"  the  "  Star,"  the  "  Trav- 
eler,"— from  all  which  he  was  successively 
dismissed,  the  Proprietors  having  "  no  fur- 
ther occasion  for  his  services."  Nothing 
was  easier  than  to  detest  him.  When  wit 
failed,  or  topics  ran  low,  there  constantly 
appeared  the  following. — "  It  is  not  gener- 
ciUi/  Jcnoim  that  the  tliree  Jjlue  Jjolis  at  the 
JPaivnbrokers'  shop  are  the  ancient  arms  of 
the  Lombards.  The  Lombards  xoere  the  first 
tnoneij -brokers  in  Europer  Bob  has  done 
more  to  set  the  public  right  on  this  impor- 
tant point  of  blazonry,  than  the  whole  Col- 
lege of  Heralds. 

The  appointment  of  a  regular  wit  has 
long  ceased  to  be  a  part  of  the  economy  of 
a  Morning  Paper.  Editors  find  their  own 
jokes,  or  do  as  well  without  them.  Parson 
Este,  and  Topham,  brought  up  the  set  cus- 
tom of  "  witty  paragraphs "  first  in  the 
^' World."  Boaden  was  a  reigning  para- 
gnrphist  in  his  day,  and  succeeded  poor 
Allen  in  the  "  Oracle."  But,  as  we  said,  the 
fashion  of  jokes  passes  away  ;  and  it  would 
be  difficult  to  discover  in  the  biographer  of 
-Mrs.  Siddons  any  traces  of  that  vivacity  and 


150  ©he  ptjit  (^$^^\p  0f  mill, 

fancy  which  charmed  the  whole  town  at  the 
commencement  of  the  present  century.  Even. 
the  prehisive  dehcacies  of  the  present  writer, 
— the  curt  "  Astrsean  allusion" — would  be 
thought  pedantic  and  out  of  date  in  these 
days. 

From  the  office  of  The  INIorning  Post  (for 
we  may  as  well  exliaust  our  Newspaper  llem- 
iniscences  at  once),  hy  change  of  property 
in  the  paper,  we  were  transferred,  mortifying 
exchange !  to  the  office  of  The  Albion  News- 
paper, late  Rackstraw's  Museum,  in  Fleet 
Street.  What  a  transition, — from  a  hand- 
some apartment,  from  rosewood  desks,  and 
silver  inkstanks,  to  an  office, —  no  office,  but 
a  den  rather,  but  just  redeemed  from  the 
occupation  of  dead  monsters,  of  which  it 
seemed  redolent, — from  the  center  of  loyalty 
and  fashion,  to  a  focus  of  vulgarity  and. 
sedition !  Here,  in  murky  closet,  inadequate 
from  its  square  contents  to  the  receipt  of 
the  two  bodies  of  Editor  and  humble  para- 
graph-maker, together  at  one  time,  sat,  in 
the  discharge  of  his  new  editorial  functions. 
(the  "  Bigod  "  of  Elia),  the  redoubted  John 
Fenwick. 

F.,  without  a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  and 
having  left  not  many  in  the  pockets  of  his 
friends  whom  he  might  connnand,  had  pur- 
chased (on  tick  doubtless)  the  whole  and 
sole  Editorship,  Proprietorship,  with  all  the 
rights  and  titles  (such  as  they  were  worth) 
of  The  Albion  from  one  Lovell;  of  whom. 


^\K  mix^i  (S,$'.ay^  of  €Un,        151 


we  know  nothing,  save  that  he  had  stood  in 
the  pillory  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince  of  Wales.. 
With  this  hopeless  concern — for  it  had  been 
sinking  ever  since  its  commencement,  and 
could  now  reckon  upon  not  more  than  a 
hundred  subscribers — F.  resolutely  deter- 
mined upon  pulling  down  the  Government  in 
the  first  instance,  and  making  both  our  for- 
tunes Ijy  way  of  corollary.  For  seven  weeks 
and  more  did  this  infatuated  democrat  go 
about  borrowing  seven-shilling  pieces,  and 
lesser  coin,  to  meet  the  daily  demands  of 
the  Stamp-Office,  Avhich  allowed  no  credit  to 
publications  of  that  side  in  politics.  An  out- 
cast from  politer  bread,  we  attached  our 
small  talents  to  the  forlorn  fortunes  of  our 
friend.  Our  occupation  now  was  to  write 
treason. 

Recollections  of  feelings, — which  were  all 
that  now  remained  from  our  first  boyish 
heats  kindled  by  the  French  Revolution, 
when,  if  we  were  misled,  we  erred  in  the  com- 
pany of  some  who  are  accounted  very  good 
men  now,— rather  than  any  tendency  at  this 
time  to  Republican  doctrines, — assisted  us 
in  assuming  a  style  of  writing,  while  the 
paper  lasted,  consonant  in  no  very  under- 
tone,— to  the  right  earnest  fanaticism  of  F. 
Our  cue  was  now  to  insinuate,  rather  than 
recommend,  possible  al)dications.  Blocks, 
axes,  AVhitehall  tril)unals,  were  covered  with 
flowers  of  so  cunning  a  periphrasis — as  Mr, 
Bays  says,  never  naming  the  t/ti//f/  directly^ 


152  ^]\t  |:a,$t  (£^$mp  of  (t'Ua. 

that  the  keen  eye  of  an  Attorney-General 
was  insufficient  to  detect  tlie  hirking  snal^e 
among"  tlieni.  Tliere  were  times,  indeed, 
wlien  we  sighed  for  our  more  gentlemanlike 
occupation  under  Stuart.  But  witli  change 
of  masters  it  is  ever  change  of  service. 
Ah-eady  one  paragraph,  and  another,  as  we 
learned  afterwards  from  a  gentleman  at  the 
Treasury,  had  begun  to  be  marked  at  that 
ofQce,  with  a  view  of  its  being  submitted  at 
least  to  the  attention  of  the  proper  Law 
Officers, — when  an  unlucky,  or  ratlier  lucky 

epigram  from  our  pen,  aimed  at  Sir  J s 

M h,  who  was  on  the  eve  of  departing 

for  India  to  reap  the  fruits  of  his  apostasy, 
as  F.  pronounced  it  (it  is  hardly  worth 
particularizing),  happening  to  offend  the  nice 
sense  of  Lord,  or,  as  he  then  delighted  to  be 
called.  Citizen  Stanhope,  deprived  F.  at  once 
of  the  last  hopes  of  a  guinea  from  the  last 
patron  that  had  stuck  by  us  ;  and  breaking 
up  our  establishment,  left  us  to  the  safe,  but 
somewhat  mortifying,  neglect  of  the  Crown 
Lawyers.  It  was  about  this  time,  or  a  little 
earlier,  that  Dan  Stuart  made  that  curious 
confession  to  us,  that  he  had  "  never  deliber- 
ately walked  into  an  Exhibitiouat  Somerset 
House  in  his  life." 


^U  fast  (t^^^^xs^  at  mm,         153 


Barrenness  of  the  Imaginative 
Faculty  in  the  Productions  of 
Modern  Art. 

Hogarth  excepted,  can  we  produce  any 
one  painter  within  tlie  last  fifty  years,  or 
since  the  humor  of  exliibiting  began,  that  has 
treated  a  story  iinafjinativehj  ?  By  this  we 
mean,  upon  whom  his  subject  has  so  acted, 
that  it  lias  seemed  to  direct  Jiim — not  to  be 
arranged  by  him?  Any  upon  whom  its 
leading'  or  collateral  i:)oints  have  impressed 
themselves  so  tyrannically,  that  he  dared 
not  treat  it  otherwise,  lest  he  should  falsify 
a  revelation?  Any  that  has  imparted  to 
his  compositions,  not  merely  so  much  truth 
as  is  enough  to  convey  a  story  with  clear- 
ness, but  that  individualizing  property, 
which  should  keep  the  subject  so  treated 
distinct  in  feature  from  every  other  subject, 
however  similar,  and  to  common  apprehen- 
sions almost  identical ;  so  as  that  we  might 
say,  this  and  this  part  could  have  found  an 
appropriate  place  in  no  other  jjicture  in  the 
Avorld  but  this?  Is  there  anything  in  mod- 
ern art — we  will  not  demand  that  it  should 
be  equal — but  in  any  way  analogous  to  what 


154         ®hc  ira.st  (^^m3^  ot  mm, 

Titian  has  effected,  in  that  -wonderful  bring- 
ing together  of  two  times  in  tlie  "Ariadne," 
in  the  National  Gallery  ?  Precipitous,  with 
his  reeling  satyr  rout  about  him,  re-peopling 
and  re-illumining  suddenly  the  waste 
places,  drunk  with  a  new  fury  beyond  the 
grape,  Bacchus,  born  in  fire,  firelike  flings 
himself  at  the  Cretan.  This  is  the  time 
present.  With  this  telling  of  the  story — an 
artist,  and  no  ordinary  one,  might  remain 
richly  proud.  Guido,  in  his  harmonious 
version  of  it,  saw  no  further.  But  from  the 
depths  of  the  imaginative  spirit  Titian  has 
recalled  past  time,  and  laid  it  contributory 
with  the  present  to  one  simultaneous  effect. 
With  the  desert  all  ringing  with  the  mad 
cymbals  of  his  followers,  made  lucid  with 
the  presence  and  new  offers  of  a  god, — as  if 
unconscious  of  Bacchus,  or  but  idly  cast- 
ing her  eyes  as  upon  some  unconceriiing 
pageant, — her  soul  undistracted  from  The- 
seus,— Ariadne  is  still  pacing  the  solitary 
shore  in  as  much  heart-silence,  and  in 
almost  the  same  local  solitude,  with  which 
she  awoke  at  daybreak  to  catch  the  forlorn 
last  glances  of  the  sail  that  bore  away  the 
Athenian. 

Here  are  two  points  miraculously  co- 
uniting  ;  fierce  society,  with  the  feeling  of 
solitude  still  absolute ;  noonday  revelations^ 
with  the  accidents  of  the  dull  gray  dawn 
nnquenched  and  lingering;  the  j^'^'^sent  Bac- 
chus, with  the  jsas^  Ariadiae ;  two  stories^ 


5rhc  I^a.st  (i!'5',$ait,^  of  (^li«.        155 


with  double  Time ;  separate,  and  liarmon- 
izing.  Had  tlie  artist  made  the  woman  one 
shade  less  indifi'erent  to  the  god;  still  more, 
had  she  expressed  a  rapture  at  his  advent, 
where  would  have  been  the  story  of  the- 
mighty  desolation  of  the  heart  previous? 
merged  in  the  insipid  accident  of  a  flattering 
offer  met  with  a  welcome  acceptance.  The 
broken  heart  for  Theseus  was  not  lightly  to 
be  pieced  up  by  a  god. 

"We  have  before  us  a  fine  rough  print, 
from  a  picture  by  Raphael  in  the  Vatican. 
It  is  the  Presentation  of  the  new-born  Eve 
to  Adam  by  the  Almiglity.  A  fairer  mother 
of  mankind  we  might  imagine,  and  a  good- 
lier sire,  perhaps,  of  men  since  born.  But 
these  are  matters  subordinate  to  th& 
conception  of  the  situation,  displayed  in 
this  extraordinary  production.  A  tolerably 
modern  artist  would  have  been  satisfied 
with  tempering  certain  raptures  of  con- 
nubial anticipation,  M'ith  a  suitable  acknowl- 
edgment to  the  Giver  of  the  blessing,  in 
the  countenance  of  the  first  bridegroom ; 
something  like  the  divided  attention  of  the 
child  (Adam  was  here  a  child-man)  between 
the  given  toy,  and  the  mother  who  had  just 
blessed  it  with  the  bauble.  This  is  the 
obvious,  the  first-sight  view,  the  superficial. 
An  artist  of  a  higher  grade,  considering  the 
awful  presence  they  were  in,  would  have 
taken  care  to  subtract  something  fi-om  the 
expression  of  the  naore  human  passion,  and 


156         ^h(  iTa.at  (^^$np  of  (gHa. 

to  heighten  the  more  spiritual  one.  This 
would  be  as  much  as  an  exliibition-goer,  from 
the  opening  of  Somerset  House  to  last  year's 
show,  has  been  encouraged  to  look  for.  It 
is  obvious  to  hint  at  a  lower  expression  yet, 
in  a  picture  that,  for  respects  of  drawing 
and  coloring,  might  be  deemed  not  wholly 
inadmissible  witliin  these  art-fostering 
walls,  in  which  the  raptures  should  be  as 
ninety-nine,  the  gratitude  as  one,  or  per- 
haps zero !  By  neither  the  one  passion  nor 
the  other  has  llaphael  expounded  the  situa- 
tion of  Adam.  Singly  upon  his  brow  sits 
the  absorbing  sense  of  wonder  at  the  created 
miracle.  The  moment  is  seized  by  the 
intuitive  artist,  perhaps  not  self-conscious 
of  his  art,  in  which  neitlier  of  the  conflicting 
emotions — a  moment  how  abstracted  ! — has 
had  time  to  spring  up,  or  to  battle  for  inde- 
corous mastery.  "We  have  seen  a  landscape 
of  a  justly  admired  neoteric,  in  which  he 
aimed  at  delineating  a  fiction,  one  of  the 
most  severely  beautiful  in  antiquity — the 

gardens  of  the  Hesperides.     To  do  iMr. 

justice,  he  had  painted  a  laudable  orchard, 
with  fitting  seclusion,  and  a  veritable  dragon 
(of  which  a  Polypheme,  by  Poussin,  is  some- 
how a  fac-simile  for  tlie  situation),  looking 
over  into  the  world  shut  out  backwards,  so 
that  none  but  a  "  still-climbing  Hercules  " 
could  hope  to  catch  a  peep  at  the  admired 
Ternary  of  Recluses.  Xo  conventual  jDorter 
could  keep  his  eyes  better  than  this  custos 


®ftc  p?it  €^m^  of  min,         157 

with  the"liclless  eyes."  He  not  only  sees 
that  none  do  intrude  into  that  privacy,  but, 
as  clear  as  daylight,  that  none  but  Hercules 
aut  Diabolus  by  any  manner  of  means  ccm. 
So  far  all  is  well.  We  have  absolute  soli- 
tude here  or  nowhere,  Ab  extra  the  dam- 
sels are  snug  enough.  But  here  the  artist's 
courage  seems  to  have  failed  him. '  lie  began 
to  pity  his  pretty  charge,  and,  to  comfort 
the  irksomeness,  has  peopled  their  solitude 
with  a  bevy  of  fair  attendants,  maids  of 
honor,  or  ladies  of  the  bedchamber,  accord- 
ing to  the  approved  etiquette  at  a  coui't  of 
the  nineteenth  century  ;  giving  to  the  whole 
scene  the  air  of  i\.fete  champetre^  if  we  will 
but  excuse  the  absence  of  the  gentlemen. 
This  is  well,  and  Watteauish.  But  what, 
has  become  of  the  solitary  mystery, — the 

"  Dauglitei's  three, 
That  sing  around  the  golden  tree  ?" 

This  is  not  the  way  in  which  Poussin  would 
have  treated  this  subject. 

The  paintings,  or  rather  the  stupendous 
architectural  designs,  of  a  modern  artist, 
have  been  urged  as  objections  to  the  theory 
of  our  motto.  They  are  of  a  character,  Ave 
confess,  to  stagger  it.  His  towered  struc- 
tures are  of  the  highest  order  of  the  material 
sublime.  Whether  they  were  dreams,  or 
transcripts  of  some,  elder  Avorkmanship, — 
Assyrian  ruins  old, — restored  by  this  mighty 


158      ^ixt  p.^t  (^$m^  of  mxn. 

artist,  they  satisfy  our  most  stretched  and 
craving  conceptions  of  the  glories  of  the 
antique  world.  It  is  a  pity  that  they  were 
ever  peopled.  On  that  side,  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  artist  halts,  and  appears  defect- 
ive. Let  us  examine  the  point  of  the  story 
in  the  "  Belshazzar's  Feast."  We  will  intro- 
duce it  by  an  apposite  anecdote. 

The  court  historians  of  the  day  record, 
that  at  the  first  dinner  given  by  the  late 
King  (then  Prince  Tiegent)  at  the  Pavilion, 
the  following  characteristic  frolic  was  played 
off.  The  guests  were  select  and  admiring ; 
the  banquet  profuse  and  admirable ;  the 
liglits  lustrous  and  oriental ;  the  eye  was 
perfectly  dazzled  with  the  display  of  plate, 
among  which  the  great  gold  salt-cellar, 
brought  from  the  regalia  in  the  Tower  for 
this  especial  purpose,  itself  a  tower !  stood 
conspicuous  for  its  magnitude.     And  now 

the   Rev.  ,  the  then  admired  court 

chaplain,  was  proceeding  with  the  grace, 
when,  at  a  signal  given,  the  lights  were 
suddenly  overcast,  and  a  huge  transparency 
was  discovered,  in  which  glittered  in  gold 
letters — 

"Bkightox — Earthquake — Swallow-up- 


Imagine  the  confusion  of  the  guests ;  the 
Georges  and  garters,  jewels,  bracelets, 
moulted  upon  the  occasion !  The  fans 
dropped,  and  picked  up  the  next  morning  by 


iThc  p.^t  (<:,S,sap'  of  mn,         159 


the  si}'  court  pages  !  3Irs.  Fitz-what's-lier- 
luune  fainting,  and  tlie  Countess  of hold- 
ing the  smelUng-bottle,  till  the  good-humored 
Prince  caused  harmony  to  be  restored,  by 
calling  in  fresh  candles,  and  declaring  that 
the  whole  was  nothing  but  a  pantomime 
/loax,  got  up  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Farley, 
of  Covent  Garden,  from  hints  wliicli  his 
lioyal  Highness  himself  had  fui'uished! 
Tlien  imagine  the  infinite  applause  that 
followed,  the  mutual  rallyings,  the  declara- 
tions that  "  they  were  not  mucli  frightened,'* 
of  the  assembled  galaxy. 

The  point  of  time  in  the  picture  exactly 
answers  to  the  appearance  of  the  trans- 
parency in  the  anecdote.  The  huddle,  the 
flutter,  the  bustle,  the  escape,  the  alarm, 
and  the  mock  alarm ;  the  prettinesses  height- 
ened by  consternation ;  the  courtier's  fear, 
Avhich  Avas  flattery ;  and  the  lady's,  which 
was  affectation ;  all  that  we  may  conceive 
to  have  taken  place  in  a  mob  of  Brighton 
courtiers,  sympathizing  with  the  well-acted 
surprise  of  their  sovereign;  all  this,  and  no 
more,  is  exliibited  by  the  well-dressed  lords 
and  ladies  in  the  TIall  of  Belus.  Just  this 
sort  of  consternation  we  liave  seen  among  a 
flock  of  disquieted  wild  geese  at  the  report 
only  of  a  gun  having  gone  off ! 

But  is  this  vulgar  fright,  this  mere  animal 
anxiety  for  the  preservation  of  their  per- 
sons,— such  as  Ave  have  witnessed  at  a 
theater,  when  a  slight  alarm  of  fire  has  been 


160         ^\\c  ^aot  (S,^'siay.3!  of  dim. 


given, — an  adequate  exponent  of  a  super- 
natural terror?  the  way  in  which  the  tlng-er 
of  God,  writing-  judg-nients,  would  have  been 
met  by  the  withered  conscience  ?  There  is  a 
human  fear,  and  a  divine  fear.  The  one  is 
disturbed,  restless,  and  bent  upon  escape. 
The  other  is  bowed  down,  effortless,  passive. 
When  the  spirit  appeared  before  Eliphaz 
in  the  visions  of  the  night,  and  the  hair  of 
his  flesh  stood  up,  was  it  in  the  thoughts  of 
the  Teuianite  to  ring"  the  bell  of  his  chamber, 
or  to  call  up  the  servants  ?  But  let  us  see 
in  the  text  Avhat  there  is  to  justify  all  this 
huddle  of  vulgar  consternation. 

From  the  words  of  Daniel  it  appears  that 
Belshazzar  had  made  a  great  feast  to  a  thou- 
sand of  his  lords,  and  drank  w- ine  before  the 
thousand.  The  golden  and  silver  vessels 
are  gorgeously  enumerated,  wdth  the  princes,, 
the  king's  concubines,  and  his  wives.  Then 
follows, — 

"  In  the  same  hour  came  forth  lingers  of 
a  man's  hand,  and  w^rote  over  against  the 
candlestick  upon  the  plaster  of  the  wall  of 
the  king's  palace ;  and  the  ki/u/  saw  the 
part  of  the  hand  that  Avrote.  Then  the 
kinrfs  countenance  was  changed,  and  his 
thoughts  troubled  him,  so  that  the  joints  of 
his  loins  were  loosened,  and  his  knees  smote 
one  against  another." 

This  is  tlie  plain  text.  By  no  hint  can  it  he 
otherwise  inferred,  but  that  the  a]ipearance 
was  solely  confined  to  the  fancy  of  Belshaz- 


®hc  mix^i  €^$rm^  of  €\m.        161 


zar,  that  liis  single  brain  was  troubled.  Not 
a  word  is  spoken  of  its  being  seen  by  any 
else  there  present,  not  even  by  the  queen 
herself,  who  merely  undertakes  for  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  phenomenon,  as  related  to 
her,  doubtless,  by  her  husband.  The  loi'ds 
are  simply  said  to  be  astonished  ;  i.e.,  at  the 
trouble  and  the  change  of  countenance  in 
their  sovereign.  Even  the  prophet  does  not 
appear  to  have  seen  the  scroll,  which  the 
king  saw.  lie  recalls  it  only,  as  Joseph  did 
the  Dream  to  the  King  of  Egypt.  "  Then 
was  the  part  of  the  hand  sent  from  him 
[the  Lord],  and  this  writing  was  written." 
lie  speaks  of  the  phantasm  as  past. 

Then  what  becomes  of  this  needless  multi- 
plication of  the  miracle?  this  message  to  a 
royal  conscience  singly  expressed, — for  it 
was  said,  "  Thy  kingdom  is  divided," — sim- 
ultaneously impressed  upon  the  fancies  of  a 
thousand  courtiers,  who  were  implied  in  it 
neither  directly  nor  grammatically  ? 

But  admitting  the  artist's  own  version  of 
the  story,  and  that  the  sight  was  seen  also 
by  the  thousand  courtiers, — let  it  have  been 
visible  to  all  Babylon, — as  the  knees  of  Bel- 
shazzar  Averc  shaken  and  his  countenance 
troubled,  even  so  would  the  knees  of  every 
man  in  Babylon,  and  their  countenances,  as 
of  an  individual  man,  have  been  troubled  ; 
bowed,  bent  down,  so  would  tliey  have 
remained,  stupor-fixed,  with  no  thought  of 
struggling  with  that  inevitable  judgment. 
11 


162         (The  p^t  (t^^.$atj,$'  of  min. 


Not  all  that  is  optically  possible  to  be  seen, 
is  to  be  shown  in  every  picture.  The  eye 
delightedly  dwells  uj^on  the  brilliant  individ- 
ualities in  a  "  Marriage  at  Cana,"  by  Vero- 
nese, or  Titian,  to  the  very  texture  and  color 
of  the  wedding-garments,  the  ring  glittering 
upon  the  bride's  finger,  the  metal  and 
fashion  of  the  wine-pots  ;  for  at  such  seasons 
there  is  leisure  and  luxury  to  be  curious. 
But  in  a  "day  of  judgment,"  or  in  a  "day 
of  lesser  horrors,  yet  divine,"  as  at  the  impi- 
ous feast  of  Belshazzar,  the  eye  should  see 
as  the  actual  eye  of  an  agent  or  patient  in 
the  immediate  scene  w^ould  see,  only  in 
masses  and  indistinction.  Xot  only  the 
female  attire  and  jewelry  exposed  to  th^ 
critical  e3"e  of  fashion,  as  miiiutely  as  the 
dresses  in  a  Lady's  Magazine,  in  the  criti- 
cised picture, — but  perhaps  the  curiosities 
of  anatomical  science,  and  studied  diver- 
sities of  posture,  in  the  falling  angels  and 
sinners  of  JNIichele  Angelo, — have  no  busi- 
ness in  their  great  subjects.  There  was  no 
leisure  for  them. 

By  a  wise  falsification,  the  great  masters 
of  painting  got  at  their  true  conclusions ; 
by  not  showing  the  actual  appearances,  that 
is,  all  that  was  to  be  seen  at  any  given 
moment  by  any  indifferent  eye,  but  only 
what  the  eye  might  be  supposed  to  see  in 
the  doing  or  suffering  of  some  portentous 
action.  Suppose  the  moment  of  the  swal- 
lowing up  of  Pompeii.     There  they  were  to 


Z\x(  i:a,st  it^^^ixp  t>t  m^,         163 


be  seen, — bouses,  columns,  architectural  pro- 
portions, differences  of  public  and  private 
buildino's,  men  and  women  at  their  standing 
occupations,  the  diversified  thousand  pos- 
tures, attitudes,  dresses,  in  some  confusion 
truly,  but  physically  they  were  visible.  But 
what  eye  saw  them  at  that  eclipsing  moment, 
which  reduces  confusion  to  a  kind  of  unity, 
and  when  the  senses  are  upturned  from  their 
i:»roprieties,  when  sight  and  hearing  are  a 
feeling  only  ?  A  thousand  years  have  passed, 
and  we  are  at  leisure  to  contemplate  the 
weaver  fixed  standing  at  his  shuttle,  the 
baker  at  his  oven,  and  to  turn  over  with 
antiquarian  coolness  the  pots  and  pans  of 
Pompeii. 

"  Sun,  stand  thou  still  upon  Gibeon,  and 
thou.  Moon,  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon."  AVho, 
in  reading  this  magnificent  Hebraism,  in  his 
conception,  sees  aught  but  the  heroic  son  of 
Nun,  with  the  outstretched  arm,  and  the 
greater  and  lesser  light  obsequious  ?  Doubt- 
less there  were  to  be  seen  hill  and  dale,  and 
chariots  and  horsemen,  on  open  plain,  or 
winding  by  secret  defiles,  and  all  the  circum- 
stances and  stratagems  of  war.  But  whoso 
eyes  would  have  been  conscious  of  this  array 
at  the  interposition  of  tlie  synclu-onic  mira- 
cle ?  Yet  in  the  picture  of  this  subject  by 
the  artist  of  the  "  Belshazzar's  Feast " — no 
ignoble  work  either — the  marshaling  and 
landscape  of  tlie  war  is  everything,  the 
miracle  ainks  into  an  anecdote  of  the  day  ,• 


1G4        ehc  ^a,$t  €^^nx\^  of  (gtia. 


and  the  eye  may  "  dart  through  rank  and 
tile  traverse "  for  some  minutes,  before  it 
shall  discover,  among-  his  armed  followers, 
w/iich  is  Joshua/  Not  modern  art  alone, 
but  ancient,  where  only  it  is  to  be  found  if 
anywhere,  can  be  detected  erring-,  from 
defect  of  this  imaginative  faculty.  The 
world  has  nothing  to  show  of  the  preter- 
natural in  painting,  transcending  the  figure 
of  Lazarus  bursting  his  grave-clothes,  in  the 
great  picture  at  Angerstein's.  It  seems  a 
thing  between  two  beings.  .\  ghastly  horror 
at  itself  struggles  with  newly  apprehending 
gratitude  at  second  life  bestowed.  It  cannot 
forget  that  it  w^as  a  ghost.  It  has  hardly 
felt  that  it  is  a  body.  It  has  to  tell  of  tlie 
world  of  spirits.  Was  it  from  a  feeling,  that 
the  crowd  of  half-impassioned  bystanders, 
and  the  still  more  irrelevant  herd  of  passers- 
by  at  a  distance,  who  have  not  heard,  or  but 
faintly  have  been  told  of  the  passing  miracle, 
admirable  as  they  are  in  design  and  hue — 
for  it  is  a  glorified  work — do  not  respond 
adequately  to  the  action — that  the  single 
figure  of  the  Lazarus  has  been  attributed  to 
Michele  Angelo,  and  the  mighty  Sebastian 
unfairly  robbed  of  the  fame  of  the  greater 
half  of  the  interest?  Now  that  there  were 
not  indifferent  passers-by  within  actual 
scope  of  the  eyes  of  those  present  at  the 
miracle,  to  wdiom  the  sound  of  it  had  but 
faintly,  or  not  at  all,  reached,  it  would  be 
hardihood  to    deny  ;  but  would   they  see 


She  p,$t  (g,^,^ity.^  of  (glia.         1G5 


them?  or  can  the  mind  in  the  conception  of 
it  admit  of  such  unconcerning-  objects ;  can 
it  tliink  of  them  at  ah  ?  or  what  associating 
league  to  the  imagination  can  tliere  be 
between  the  seers,  and  the  seers  not,  of  a 
l^resential  miracle  ? 

Were  an  artist  to  paint  upon  demand  a  pic- 
ture of  a  Dryad,  we  will  ask  whether,  in  the 
present  lov/  state  of  expectation,  the  joatron 
would  not,  or  ought  not  to  be  fully  satisfied 
with  a  beautiful  naked  figure  recumbent 
tinder  wide-stretched  oaks  ?  Disseat  those 
woods,  and  place  the  same  figure  among 
fountains,  and  fall  of  pellucid  water,  and  you 
have  a — Naiad  !  iSTot  so  in  a  rough  print 
we  have  seen  after  Julio  Ilomano,  we 
think — for  it  is  long  since — there^  by  no  pro- 
cess, with  mere  change  of  scene,  could  the 
figure  have  reciprocated  characters.  Long, 
grotesque,  fantastic,  yet  with  a  grace  of 
her  own,  beautiful  in  convolution  and  dis- 
tortion, linked  to  her  connatural  tree,  co- 
twisting  with  its  limbs  her  own,  till  both 
seemed  either — these,  animated  branches; 
those,  disanimated  members — yet  the  ani- 
mal and  vegetal)le  lives  sufficiently  kept 
distinct, — his  Dryad  lay — an  approxima- 
tion of  two  natures,  which  to  conceive,  it 
must  be  seen ;  analogous  to,  not  the  same 
with,  the  delicacies  of  Ovidian  transfor- 
mations. 

To  the  lowest  subjects,  and  to  a  superficial 
comprehension,  the  most  barren,  the  Great 


166         5^hc  ^w^i  ^^^'Ams  of  (^lia. 


Masters  gave  loftiness  and  fruitfulness.  The 
large  eye  of  genius  saw  in  the  meanness  of 
present  objects  their  capabilities  of  treat- 
ment from  their  relations  to  some  grand 
Past  or  Future.  How  has  liaphael — -we 
must  still  linger  about  the  Vatican — treated 
the  humble  craft  of  the  ship-builder,  in  his 
"■  Building  of  the  Ark  "  ?  It  is  in  that  scrip- 
tural sei'ies,  to  -which  we  have  referred,  and 
which,  judging  from  some  fine  rough  old 
graphic  sketches  of  them  which  we  possess, 
seem  to  be  of  a  higher  and  more  poetic  grade 
than  even  the  Cartoons.  The  dim  of  siglit 
are  the  timid  and  the  shrinking.  There  is 
a  cowardice  in  modern  art.  As  the  French- 
man, of  whom  Coleridge's  friend  made  the 
l^rophetic  guess  at  Rome,  from  the  beard  and 
horns  of  the  Moses  of  3Iicliele  Angelo  cd- 
lected  no  inferences  beyond  thiit  of  a  lie 
Goat  and  a  Cornuto ;  so  from  this  subject, 
of  mere  mechanic  i3romise,  it  would  instinct- 
ively turn  away,  as  from  one  incapable  of 
investiture  with  any  grandeur.  The  dock- 
yards at  Woolwich  would  oljject  derogatory 
associations.  The  depot  at  Chatham  would 
be  the  mote  and  the  beam  in  its  intellectual 
eye.  But  not  to  the  nautical  preparations 
in  the  ship-yards  of  Civita  Vecchia  did  Jla- 
l^haellook  for  instructions,  when  he  imagined 
the  Building  of  the  Vessel  that  was  to  be 
conservatory  of  the  wrecks  of  the  species  of 
drowned  mankind.  In  the  intensity  of  the 
action,  he  keeps  ever  out  of  sight  the  mean- 


m\c  Xuiit  (^^:i:.^'S  cf  eUu.         167 

ness  of  the  operation.  There  is  the  Patri- 
arch, ill  calm  forethought,  and  "U'ith  holy 
prescience,  giving  directions.  And  tliere 
are  his  agents — tlie.  solitary  but  suificienfc 
Three — hewing,  sawing,  every  one  with  the 
might  and  earnestness  of  a  Demiurgus ; 
under  some  instinctive  rather  than  technical 
guidance !  giant-muscled ;  every  one  a  Her- 
cules, or  liker  to  those  Vulcanian  Three, 
that  in  sounding  caverns  under  jMongibello 
wrought  in  fire, — Brontes,  and  black  Ster- 
opes,  and  Pyracmon.  So  work  the  workmen 
that  should  repair  a  world ! 

Artists  again  err  in  the  confounding  of 
poeticyvitli pictorial  suhjects.  In  the  latter, 
the  exterior  accidents  are  nearly  everything 
— the  unseen  cjualities  as  nothing.  Othello's 
color, — the  infirmities  and  corpulence  of  a  Sir 
John  Falstaff, — -do  they  haunt  us  perpetually 
in  the  reading?  or  are  they  obtruded  upon 
our  conceptions  one  time  for  ninety-nine 
that  we  are  lost  in  admiration  at  the  respect- 
ive moral  or  intellectual  attributes  of  the 
character?  But  in  a  picture  Othello  is 
alwai/s  a  Blackamoor :  and  the  other  only 
Plump  Jack.  Deeply  corporealized,  and 
enchained  hopelessly  in  the  groveling  fet- 
ters of  externality,  must  be  the  mind,  to 
which,  in  its  better  moments,  the  image  of 
the  high-souled,  high-intelligenced  Quixote 
— the  errant  Star  of  Knighthood,  made  more 
tender  by  eclijise — has  never  presented  it- 
self, divested  from  the  unhallowed  accom- 


168        ^\\t  X'A^t  (^^pM\^  of  (glia. 


paniment  of  a  Sanclio,  or  a  rabblement  at 
the  heels  of  Rosinante.  That  man  has  read 
his  book  by  halves  ;  he  has  laughed,  mistak- 
ing his  author's  purport,  whicli  was — tears. 
The  artist  that  pictures  Quixote  (and  it  is  in 
this  degrading  point  that  he  is  every  season 
held  up  at  our  Exhibitions)  in  the  shallow 
hope  of  exciting  mirth,  Avoald  have  joined 
the  rabble  at  the  heels  of  his  starved  steed. 
We  wish  not  to  see  that  counterfeited,  whicli 
we  would  not  have  wished  to  see  in  the 
reality.  Conscious  of  the  heroic  inside  of 
the  noble  Quixote,  who,  on  hearing  that  his 
withered  person  was  passing,  would  have 
stepped  over  his  threshold  to  gaze  upon  his 
forlorn  habiliments,  and  the  "  strange  bed- 
fellows Avhich  misery  brings  a  man  acquaint- 
ed with  "  ■?  Shade  of  Cervantes !  who  hi 
thy  Second  Part  could  put  into  the  mouth 
of  thy  Quixote  those  high  aspirations  of  a 
super-chivalrous  gallantry,  where  he  replies 
to  one  of  the  shepherdesses,  apprehensive 
that  he  would  spoil  their  pretty  net- works, 
and,  inviting  him  to  be  a  guest  with  them, 
in  accents  like  these  ;  "  Truly,  fairest  Lady, 
Acta:^on  was  not  more  astonished  when  he 
saw  Diana  bathing  herself  at  the  fountain, 
than  I  have  been  in  beholding  j^our  beauty: 
I  commend  the  manner  of  your  pastime,  and 
thank  you  for  your  kind  offers  ;  and,  if  I  may 
serve  you,  so  I  may  be  sure  you  will  be 
obeyed,  you  may  command  me  ;  for  my  pro- 
fession is  this,  To  show  myself  thankful,  and 


mic  E»$t  i&^rmr^  ot  €lm,        ic& 


:a  doer  of  good  to  all  sorts  of  people,  especi- 
ally of  the  rank  that  your  person  shows  you 
to  be ;  and  if  those  nets,  as  they  take  up  but 
a  little  piece  of  ground,  should  take  up  the 
whole  world,  I  would  seek  out  new  worlds 
to  pass  through,  rather  than  break  them; 
and  (he  adds),  that  you  may  give  credit  to 
this  my  exaggeration,  behold  at  least  he  that 
2n'omiseth  you  this,  is  Don  Quixote  la  Man- 
cha,  if  haply  this  name  hath  come  to  your 
hearing."  Illustrious  Romancer !  were  the 
"  fine  frenzies,"  vv'hicli  possessed  the  brain 
of  thy  own  Quixote,  a  fit  subject,  as  in  this 
Second  Part,  to  be  exposed  to  the  jeers  of 
Duennas  and  Serving  Men  ?  to  be  monstered, 
and  shown  up  at  the  heartless  banquets  of 
great  men?  Yfas  that  pitiable  infirmity, 
which  in  thy  First  Part  misleads  him  ahraijs 
from  within.,  into  half-ludicrous,  but  more 
than  half-compassionable  and  admirable  er- 
rors, not  infliction  enough  from  heaven,  that 
men  by  studied  artifices  must  devise  and 
practice  upon  the  humor,  to  inflame  where 
they  should  soothe  it  ?  Why,  Goneril  would 
have  blushed  to  jpractice  upon  the  abdicated 
king  at  this  rate,  and  the  she-wolf  Pcgan 
not  have  endured  to  play  the  pranks  upon 
his  fled  wits,  which  thou  hast  made  thy 
Quixote  suffer  in  Duchesses'  halls,  and  at 
the  hands  of  that  unworthy  nobleman.* 

*yet  from  this  Second  Part,  our  cried-up  pict- 
ures are  mostly  selected  ;  the  waitiug-womeu  with 
'beards,  etc. 


170        rUc  ^aiat  (^^m^  of  min. 


In  the  First  Adventures,  even,  it  needed 
all  tlie  art  of  the  most  consummate  artist  in 
the  Book  way  that  the  world  hath  yet  seen, 
to  keep  up  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  the 
heroic  attributes  of  the  character  without 
relaxing-;  so  as  absolutely  that  they  shall 
suffer  no  alloy  from  the  debasing-  fellowship 
of  the  clown.  If  it  ever  obtrudes  itself  as  a 
disharmony,  are  we  inclined  to  laugh  or  not, 
rather,  to  indulge  a  contrary  emotion  ? — Cer- 
vantes, stung,  perchance,  by  the  relish  ^^■ith. 
which  /lis  Keading  Public  had  received  the 
fooleries  of  the  man  more  to  their  palates 
than  the  generosities  of  the  master,  in  the 
sequel  let  his  pen  run  riot,  lost  the  harmony 
and  the  balance,  and  sacrificed  a  great  idea 
to  the  taste  of  his  contemporaries.  We 
know  that  in  the  present  day  the  Knight 
has  fewer  admirers  than  the  Squire.  Antic- 
ipating, what  did  actually  happen  to  him, 
— as  afterwards  it  did  to  his  scarce  inferior 
follower,  the  Author  of  "  Guzman  de  Alfar- 
ache," —  that  some  less  knowing  hand  Avould 
prevent  him  by  a  spurious  Second  Part ; 
and  judging  that  it  would  be  easier  for  his 
competitor  to  outbid  him  in  the  comicalities, 
than  in  the  romance,  of  his  Avork,  he  aban- 
doned his  Knight,  and  has  fairly  set  up  the 
Squire  for  his  Hero*  For  what  else  has  he 
unsealed  the  eyes  of  Sancho  ?  and  instead 
of  that  twilight  state  of  semi-insanity — the 
madness  at  second  hand — the  contagion, 
cauu'ht  from  a  stronger  mind  infected — that 


®Uc  ^it-st  (^rs^in\!i  of  (eiia.         171 


war  between  native  cunning  and  hereditary 
deference,  with  which  he  has  hitherto  accom- 
panied his  master, — two  for  a  pair  almost, 
— does  he  substitute  a  downriglit  Knave, 
with  open  eyes,  for  his  own  ends  only  fol- 
lowing* a  confessed  ^ladman  ;  and  offering  at 
one  time  to  lay,  if  not  actually  laying,  hands 
upon  him  !  From  the  moment  that  Sancho 
loses  his  reverence,  Don  Quixote  is  become 
— a  treatable  lunatic.  Our  artists  hauuie^ 
liim  accordmgly.  ""    -"^ 


ehc  l^ast  (^^^i\\^^  tft  €lm. 


The  Wedding. 

I  DO  not  know  when  I  liave  been  better 
pleased  than  at  being  invited  last  week  to 
be  present  at  the  wedding-  of  a  friend's 
(laughter.  I  like  to  make  one  at  these  cere- 
monies, which  to  ns  old  people  give  back 
our  youth  in  a  manner,  and  restore  our 
gayest  season,  in  the  remembrance  of  our 
own  success,  or  the  regrets,  scarcely  less 
tender,  of  our  own  youthful  disappointments, 
m  this  point  of  a  settlement.  On  these  oc- 
casions I  am  sure  to  be  in  good-humor  for 
a  week  or  two  after,  and  enjoy  a  reflected 
honeymoon.  Being  without  a  famih^,  I  am 
flattered  with  these  temporary  adoptions 
into  a  friend's  famil)^ ;  I  feel  a  sort  of 
cousinhood,  or  imcleship,  for  the  season ;  I 
am  inducted  into  degrees  of  affinity;  and,  in 
the  participated  socialities  of  the  little  com- 
munity, I  lay  down  for  a  brief  while  my 
solitary  bachelorship.  I  carry  this  humor 
so  far,  that  I  take  it  unkindly  to  be  left  out, 
even  when  a  funeral  is  goingon  in  the  house 
of  a  dear  friend.     But  to  my  subject. 

The  union  itself  had  been  long  settled,  but 
its  celebration  had  been  hitherto  deferred, 


to  an  almost  unreasonable  state  of  suspense 
in  the  lovers,  by  some  invincible  prejudices 
which  the  bride's  father  had  unhappily  con- 
tracted upon  the  subject  of  the  too  early 
marriages  of  females.  He  has  been  lecturing 
any  time  these  five  years — for  to  that  length 
the  courtship  has  been  protracted — upon  the 
propriety  of  putting  olf  the  solemnity,  till 
the  lady  should  have  complete'd  her  five-and- 
twentieth  year.  We  all  began  to  be  afraid 
that  a  suit,  which  as  yet  had  abated  none  of 
it  ardors,  might  at  last  be  lingered  on,  till 
passion  had  time  to  cool,  and  love  go  out 
in  the  experiment.  But  a  little  wheedling 
on  the  part  of  his  wife,  who  was  by  no 
means  a  party  to  tliese  overstrained  notions, 
joined  to  some  serious  expostulations  on 
that  of  his  friends,  who,  from  the  growing 
infirmities  of  the  old  gentleman,  could  not 
promise  ourselves  many  years'  enjoyment 
of  his  company,  and  were  anxious  to  bring 
matters  to  a  conclusion"  during  his  lifetime, 
at  length  prevailed ;  and  on  IMonday  last 

the  daughter  of  my  old  friend,  Admiral , 

having  attained  the  v)omanhj  age  of  nineteen, 
was  conducted  to  the  church  by  her  pleas- 
ant cousin  J ,  who  told  some  few  years 

older. 

Before  the  youthful  part  of  my  femalo 
readers  express  their  indignation  at  the 
abominable  loss  of  time  occasioned  to  the 
lovers  by  the  preposterous  notions  of  my  old 
friend,  they  will  do  well  to  consider  the  re- 


174         Z\\c  i:a.^t  (t^^m^  of  €Ua. 


luctance  wliicli  a  fond  parent  naturally  feels 
at  parting  with  his  cliild.  To  this  unwill- 
ingness, I  beUeve,  in  most  cases  may  be 
traced  the  difference  of  opinion  on  this  point 
between  child  and  parent,  whatever  pre- 
tenses of  interest  or  prudence  may  be  held 
out  to  cover  it.  Tlie  hard-heartedness  of 
fathers  is  a  fine  theme  for  romance  writers, 
a  sure  and  moving  topic;  but  is  there  not 
something  untender,  to  say  no  more  of  it,  in 
the  hurry  which  a  beloved  child  is  some- 
times in  to  tear  herself  from  the  i^aternal 
stock,  and  commit  herself  to  strange  graft- 
ings '?  The  case  is.  heightened  where  the 
lady,  as  in  the  present  instance,  happens  to 
be  an  only  child.  I  do  not  understand  these 
matters  experimentally,  but  I  can  make  a 
shrewd  guess  at  the  wounded  pride  of  a 
parent  upon  these  occasions.  It  is  no  new 
observation,  I  believe,  that  a  lover  In  most 
cases  has  no  rival  so  much  to  be  feared  as 
the  father.  Certainly  there  is  a  jealousy  in 
iniparallel  subjects,  which  is  little  less  heart- 
rending than  the  passion  which  we  more 
strictly  christen  b}^  that  name.  Mothers' 
scruples  are  more  easily  got  over;  for  this 
reason,  I  suppose,  that  the  protection  trans- 
ferred to  a  husband  is  less  a  derogation  and 
a  loss  to  their  authority  than  to  the  paternal. 
Mothers,  besides,  have  a  trembling  foresight, 
which  prints  the  inconveniences  (impossible 
to  be  conceived  in  the  same  degree  by  the 
other  parent)  of  a  life  of  forlorn  celibacy, 


®he  p^st  (^^^:i^^  of  (B\m.         175 

"which  the  refusal  of  a  tolerable  match  may 
entail  upon  their  child.  Mother's  instinct 
is  a  surer  guide  here,  tlian  the  cold  reason- 
ings of  a  father  on  such  a  topic.  To  this 
instinct  may  be  imputed,  and  by  it  alone 
may  be  excused,  the  unbeseeming  artitices, 
by  which  some  v^ives  push  on  the  matrimon- 
ial projects  of  their  daughters,  Avhich  the 
husband,  however  approving,  shall  entertain 
•with  comparative  indifi'erence.  A  little 
shamelessness  on  this  head  is  pardonable. 
With  this  explanation,  forwardness  becomes 
a  grace,  and  maternal  importunity  receives 
the  name  of  a  virtue.  But  the  parson  stays, 
while  I  preposterously  assume  his  oihce ;  I 
am  preaching,  while  the  bride  is  on  the 
tliresliold. 

Nor  let  any  of  my  female  readers  suppose 
that  the  sage  reflections  which  have  just 
escaped  me  have  the  obliquest  tendency  of 
application  to  the  young  lady  who,  it  will  be 
seen,  is  about  to  venture  upon  a  change  in 
her  condition,  at  a  mature  and  competent  a<ye, 
and  not  without  the  fullest  approbation  of 
all  parties.  I  only  deprecate  veiy  hasty 
marria(/es. 

It  had  been  fixed  that  the  ceremony  should 
be  gone  through  at  an  early  hour,  to  give 
time  for  a  little  (^^'c^^y^cr  afterwards,  to  which 
a  select  party  of  friends  had  been  invited. 
We  were  in  church  a  little  before  the  clock 
struck  eight. 

Nothing  could  be  more  judicious  or  grace- 


176         me  fast  (Jr.ssay,^  of  (Blia. 


ful  than  the  dress  of  the  brideraaids — the 
three  charming'  Miss  Foresters — on  this 
morning.  To  give  the  bride  an  opportunity 
of  shining  singly,  they  had  come  habited  all 
in  green.  I  am  ill  at  describhig  female 
appai'cl  ;  but  ^vhile  s/ie  stood  at  the  altar  in 
vestments  white  and  candid  as  her  thoughts, 
a  sacrificial  whiteness,  t/ie>/  assisted  in  robes, 
such  as  might  become  Diana's  njanphs ; — ■ 
Foresters  indeed, — as  such  who  had  not  yet 
come  to  the  resolution  of  putting  off  cold 
Yirginit3^  These  young  maids,  not  being  so 
blest  as  to  have  a  mother  living,  I  am  told 
keep  single  for  their  father's  sake,  and  live 
altogether  so  happy  with  their  remaining 
parent,  that  the  hearts  of  their  lovers  are 
ever  broken  Avith  the  x)i'ospect  (so  inauspi- 
cious to  their  hopes)  of  such  uninterrupted 
and  provoking  homo-comfort.  Gallant  girls, 
each  a  victim  worthy  of  Iphigenia  ! 

I  do  not  know  what  business  I  have  to  be 
present  in  solemn  places.  I  cannot  divest 
me  of  an  unseasonable  disposition  to  levity 
upon  the  most  awful  occasions.  I  was  never 
cut  out  for  a  i)ublio  functionary.  Ceremony 
and  I  have  long  shaken  hands  ;  but  I  could 
not  resist  the  importunities  of  the  young 
lady's  father  whose  gout  unhappily  confined 
him  at  home,  to  act  as  parent  on  this  occa- 
sion, and  ffioe  atoai/  the  bride.  Something 
ludicrous  occurred  to  me  at  this  most  serious 
of  all  moments, — a  sense  of  my  unfitness 
to  have  the  disposal,  eveniu  imagination,  of 


©he  Xix^i  ^^$Axp  oi  ($Ua.        ITT 

the  sweet  young  creature  beside  me.  I  fear- 
I  was  betrayed  to  some  lightness,  for  the' 
awful  eye  of  the  ])arson — and  the  rector's  eye 
of  Saint  Mildred's  in  the  Poultry  is  no  trifle 
of  a  rebuke — was  uj^on  me  in  an  instant,, 
souring  my  incipient  jest  to  the  tristful  sever- 
ities of  a  funeral. 

This  was  the  only  misbehavior  which  I 
can  plead  to  upon  this  solemn  occasion, 
unless  what  Avas  objected  to  me  after  the  cere- 
mony, by  one  of  the  handsome  Miss  T s, 

be  accounted  a  solecism.  She  was  pleased. 
to  say  that  she  had  never  seen  a  gentleman 
before  me  give  away  a  bride,  in  black.  Now 
black  has  been  my  ordinary  apparel  so  long- 
• — indeed  I  take  ib  to  be  the  proper  costume 
for  an  author — the  state  sanctions  it, — that 
to  have  appeared  in  some  lighter  color  would 
have  raised  more  mirth  at  my  expense  than 
the  anomaly  had  created  censure.  But  I 
could  perceive  that  the  bride's  mother,  and 
some  elderly  ladies  present  (God  bless  them  1} 
would  have  been  well  content,  if  I  had  come- 
in  any  other  color  than  that.  But  I  got  over 
the  omen  by  a  lucky  apologue,  which  I 
remembered  out  of  Pilpay,  or  some  Indian 
author,  of  all  the  birds  being  invited  to  the 
linnet's  wedding,  at  which  when  all  the  rest 
came  in  their  gayest  feathers,  the  raven  alone 
apologized  for  liis  cloak  because  "he  hadno> 
other."  This  tolerably  reconciled  the  elders. 
But  with  the  young  people  all  was  merriment 
and  shaking  of  hands  and  congratulations* 
12 


178         ;B\\t  p,5t  (B.^.^ay,^  of  (gUa. 


unci  kissing  away  the  bride's  tears,  and  kiss- 
ing from  tier  in  return,  till  a  j'oung  lady, 
ivho  assumed  some  experience  in  these 
matters,  having  worn  the  nuptial  bands 
some  four  or  five  weeks  longer  than  her 
friend,  rescued  her,  archly  observing,  with 
half  an  eye  upon  the  bridegroom,  tliat  at 
this  rate  she  would  have  "  none  left." 

My  friend,  the  Admiral,  was  in  fine  wig 
and  buckle  on  this  occasion — a  striking  con- 
trast to  his  usual  neglect  of  personal  appear- 
ance. He  did  not  once  shove  up  his  borrowed 
locks  (his  custom  ever  at  his  morning  studies) 
to  betray  the  few  gray  stragglers  of  his  own 
beneath  them.  He  wore  an  aspect  of  thougiit- 
ful  satisfaction.  I  trembled  for  the  hour, 
wiiich  at  length  approached,  Avhen  after  a 
protracted  breakfast  of  three  hours — if  stores, 
of  cold  fowls,  tongues,  ham,  botargoes,  dried 
fruits,  wines,  cordials,  etc.,  can  deserve  so 
meager  an  appellation — the  coach  was  an- 
nounced, which  was  come  to  carry  ofl:  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  for  a  season,  as  cus- 
tom has  sensibly  ordained,  into  the  country  ; 
upon  which  design,  wishing  them  a  felicitous 
journey,  let  us  return  to  the  assembled 
guests. 

"  As  when  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
The  eyes  of  men 
Are  icily  bent  oa  him  that  enters  next," 

SO  idly  did  we  bend  our  eyes  upon  one 
another,  when  the  chief  performers  in  the 


®hc  i^ir.^t  (^^^^:i\p  ot  (Mn.        179 

morning's  pageant  had  vanished.  None  told 
his  tale.  None  sipped  her  glass.  The  poor 
Admiral  made  an  effort, — it  was  not  nuich. 
I  had  anticipated  so  far.  Even  the  inhnity 
of  full  satisfaction,  that  had  betrayed  itself 
through  the  prim  looks  and  quiet  deport- 
ment of  his  lady,  began  to  wane  into  some- 
thing of  misgiving.  No  one  knew  whether 
to  take  their  leaves  or  stay.  AVe  seemed 
assembled  upon  a  silly  occasion.  In  this 
crisis,  betwixt  tarrying  and  departure,  I 
must  do  justice  to  a  foolish  talent  of  mine, 
which  had  otherwise  like  to  have  brought 
me  into  disgrace  in  the  forepart  of  the  day; 
I  mean  a  power,  hi  any  emergency,  of  think- 
ing and  giving  vent  to  all  manner  of  strange 
nonsense.  In  this  awkward  dilemma  I  found 
it  sovereign.  I  rattled  oif  some  of  my  most 
excellent  absurdities.  All  were  willing  to 
be  relieved,  at  any  expense  of  reason,  from 
the  pressure  of  the  intolerable  vacuum  which 
had  succeeded  to  the  morning  bustle.  By 
this  means  I  was  fortunate  in  keeping  to- 
gether the  better  part  of  the  company  to  a 
late  hour  ;  and  a  rubber  of  whist  (the  Ad- 
miral's favorite  game),with  some  rare  strokes 
of  chance  as  well  as  skill,  Avhich  came  op- 
portunely on  his  side, — lengthened  out  till 
midnight, — dismissed  the  old  gentleman  at 
last  to  his  bed  with  comparatively  easy 
spirits. 

I  have  been  at  my  old  friend's  various 
times  since.     I  do  not  know  a  visiting  place 


180        ®hc  i^a.st  (i!^mp  of  OJUa. 

where  every  guest  is  so  perfectly  at  his  ease; 
nowhere,  where  harmoii}^  is  so  strangely  the 
result  of  confusion.  Everybody  is  at  cross 
purposes,  yet  the  effect  is  so  much  better  than 
uniformity.  Contradictory  orders  ;  serv- 
ants pulling  one  way ;  master  and  mistress 
driving  some  other,  yet  both  diverse  ;  visi- 
tors huddled  up  in  corners  ;  chairs  unsym- 
metrized;  candles  disposed  by  chance ;  meals 
at  odd  hours,  tea  and  supper  at  once,  or  the 
latter  preceding  the  former ;  the  host  and 
the  guest  conferring,  yet  each  upon  a  dif- 
ferent topic,  each  understanding  himself, 
neither  trying  to  understand  or  hear  the 
other ;  draughts  and  politics,  chess  and  polit- 
ical economy,  cards  and  conversation  on 
nautical  matters,  going  on  at  once,  without 
the  hope,  or  indeed  the  wish,  of  distinguish- 
ing them,  make  it  altogether  the  most  per- 
fect Concordia  discors  you  shall  meet  w^  ith. 
Yet  somehow  the  old  house  is  not  quite 
what  it  should  be.  The  Admiral  still  en- 
joys his  pipe,  but  he  has  no  Miss  Emily 
to  fill  it  for  him.  The  instrument  stands 
where  it  stood,  but  she  is  gone,  whose  deli- 
cate touch  could  sometimes  for  a  short 
minute  appease  the  warring  elements.  He 
has  learnt,  as  Marvel  expresses  it,  to  "  make 
his  destiny  his  choice."  lie  bears  bravely 
up,  but  he  does  not  come  out  with  his  flashes 
of  wild  wit  so  thick  as  formerly.  His  sea- 
songs  seldomer  escape  him.  His  wife,  too, 
looks  as  if  she  wanted  some  younger  body 


5:he  i:asit  Ol'SJ.^ay^  of  (glia.         181 

to  scold  and  set  to  rights.  "We  all  miss  a 
junior  presence.  It  is  wonderful  how  one 
young'  maiden  freshens  up,  and  keeps  green, 
the  paternal  roof.  Old  and  young  seem  to 
have  an  interest  in  her,  so  long  as  she  is  not 
absolutely  disposed  of.  The  youthfuhiess 
of  the  house  is  llown.     Emily  is  married. 


182         BU  f  a.^t  ^^!^w^^  of  (!:Ua. 


Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's 
Coming  of  Age. 

The  Old  Vcar  being  deird,  and  the  JVew 
Year  coming-  of  age,  wliicli  lie  does,  by 
Calendar  Law,  as  soon  as  the  breath  is  out 
of  the  old  gentleman's  body,  nothing  would 
serve  the  young  spark  but  he  must  give  a 
dinner  upon  the  occasion,  to  which  all  the 
Days  in  the  year  were  invited.  The  Festi- 
vals, whom  he  deputed  as  his  stewards, 
were  mightily  taken  with  the  notion.  They 
had  been  engaged  time  out  of  mind,  they 
said,  in  providing  mirth  and  good  cheer  for 
mortals  below  ;  and  it  was  time  they  should 
have  a  taste  of  their  own  bounty.  It  -w  as 
stiffly  debated  among  them  whether  the 
Fasts  should  be  admitted.  Some  said,  the 
appearance  of  such  lean,  starved  guests,  with 
their  mortified  faces,  would  pervert  the  ends 
of  the  meeting.  But  the  objection  was  over- 
ruled by  Christmas  Day,  who  had  a  design 
upon  Ash  Wednesday  (as  you  shall  hear), 
and  a  mighty  desire  to  see  how  the  old 
Dominie  Avould  behave  himself  in  his  cups. 
Only  the    Vigils  were  requested  to  come 


mt  fa.st  (^^^inp  of  (J:Ua.  183 


with  their  lanterns,  to  light  the  gentlefolks 
home  at  night. 

All  the  JJa;/s  came  to  their  day.  Covers 
■were  provided  for  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  guests  at  the  principal  table;  Avith  art 
0(3casional  knife  and  fork  at  the  sideboard 
for  the  T u: ei it ij- Ninth  of  Fehrnarij. 

I  should  have  told  you,  that  cards  of 
invitation  had  been  issued.  The  carriers 
were  the  Hours  ;  twelve  little,  merry,  whir- 
ligig foot-pages,  as  you  should  desire  to  see, 
that  went  all  round,  and  found  out  the 
persons  invited  well  enough,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Easter  Day,  /Shrove  Tuesdai/,  and 
a  few  such  Movables,  who  had  lately  shifted 
their  quarters.  ' 

Well,  they  all  met  at  last,  foul  Days,  fine 
Days,  all  sorts  of  Days,  and  a  rare  din  they 
made  of  it.  There  was  nothing  but.  Hail  I 
fellow  Day, — Avell  met, — brother  Day — 
sister  Day — oidy  Lady  Day  kept  a  little 
on  the  aloof  and  seemed  somewhat  scornful. 
Yet  some  said,  TweJftli  Day  cut  her  out  and 
out,  for  she  came  in  a  tiffany  suit,  white 
and  gold  like  a  queen  on  a  frost  cake,  all 
royal,  glittering,  and  Epvplianous.  The 
rest  came,  some  in  green,  some  in  white, — 
but  old  Lent  and  Ids  family  were  not  yet, 
out  of  mourning.  Uainy  Days  came  in,. 
dripping;  and  sunshiny  i>a y 6- helped  them, 
to  change  their  stockings.  Wedding  Day 
was  there  in  his  marriage  finery,  a  little  the 
worse  for  wear.    Day  Day  came  late,  as  he- 


always  does ;  and  Dooms  Day  sent  word — 
lie  migiit  be  expected. 

April  Fool  (as  my  j^oimg lord's  jester)  took 
upon  himself  to  marshal  the  guests,  and 
wild  work  he  made  with  it.  It  would  have 
posed  old  Erra  Pater  to  have  found  out  any 
given  Dan  i-^  ^^^^  yc-vr,  to  erect  a  scheme 
upon — g'ood  Days,  bad  Dai/s  were  so  sliulfled 
together  to  the  confounding  of  all  sober 
.Poroscopy. 

lie  had  stuck  the  Ticentu- First  of  June 
next  to  the  Tirenty- Second  of  Decemher^  and 
the  former  looked  like  a  Maypole  siding  a 
marrow-bone.  Ash  Wednesdai/  got  wedged 
in  (as  was  concerted)  betwixt  Christmas 
and  DordJIaj/or's  Dai/s.  Lord !  how  he  laid 
about  him !  Nothing  but  barons  of  beef  and 
turkeys  would  go  down  with  him, — to  the 
great  greasing  and  detriment  of  his  new 
sackcloth  bib  and  tucker.  And  still  Christ- 
mas Dai/  was  at  his  elbow,  plying  him 
W'ith  the  wassail-bowl,  till  he  roared,  and 
hiccupp'd,  and  protested  there  was  no  faith 
indried  ling,  but  commended  it  to  the  devil 
ior  a  sour,  windy,  acrimonious,  censorious 
liy-pocrit-crit-critical  mess,  and  no  dish  for 
ji  gentleman.  Then  he  dipt  his  fist  into 
the  middle  of  the  great  custard  that  stood 
before  his  hft-hand  neighbor^  and  daubed 
his  hungry  beard  all  over  with  it,  till  you 
"would  have  taken  him  for  the  Last  Day 
in  December^  it  so  hung  in  icicles. 

At  another  part  of  the  table,  Shrove  Tues- 


©he  p^t  (^$$i\\p  of  (^l\n,        185 


<7a?/  was  helping  the  ^Second  of  ^September  to 
some  cock  broth, — wliich  courtesy  the  hitter 
returned  with  the  delicate  thigli  of  a  hen 
pheasant, — so  there  v.'as  no  love  lost  for 
that  matter.  The  I^ast  of  Lent  was  spong- 
ing upon  Shrovetide's  pancakes ;  which 
April  Fool  perceiving,  told  him  he  did  well, 
for  pancakes  were  proper  to  a  good  fry- 
dan. 

In  another  part,  a  hubbub  arose  about 
the  Thirtieth  of  tTawiari/,  who,  it  seems, 
being  a  sour,  puritanic  character,  that 
thought  nobody's  meat  good  or  satisfied 
enough  for  him,  had  smuggled  into  the 
room  a  calf's  head,  which  he  had  cooked  at 
home  for  that  purpose,  thinking  to  feast 
thereon  incontinently ;  but  as  it  lay  in  the 
dish  Marcli  Manr/tneatJiers,  who  is  a  very 
fine  lady,  and  subject  to  the  meagrims, 
screamed  out  tiiere  was  a  "  human  head  in 
the  platter,"  and  raved  about  Ilerodias's 
daughter  to  that  degree,  that  the  obnoxious 
viand  was  obliged  to  be  removed ;  nor  did 
she  recover  her  stomach  till  she  had  gulped 
down  a  liestoratiue,  confected  of  Oak  Apjde, 
which  the  merry  Tirenty-N'inth  of  May 
always  carries  about  with  him  for  that  pur- 
pose. 

The  King's  health  *  being  called  for  after 
this,  a  notable  dispute  arose  between  the 
Twelfth   of  August   (a  zealous    old    Whig 

*  Kiug  George  IV. 


186         5>hc  p.5t  (^::;:i^^!S  cf  min. 


gentlewoman),  and  the.  Twent>/-Tmrcl  of 
Ajrril  (a  new-fangled  lady  of  the  Tory 
stamp),  as  to  which  of  them  should  have  the 
honor  to  propose  it.  August  grew  hot  upon 
the  matter,  affirming-  time  out  of  mind  the 
prescriptive  riglit  to  have  lain  with  her,  till 
her  rival  had  basely  supplanted  her ;  whom 
she  represented  as  little  better  than  a  Lcpt 
mistress,  who  went  about  in  fine  clothes^ 
while  she  (the  legitimate  Birthday)  had 
scarcely  a  rag,  etc. 

April  J^ool,  being  made  mediator,  con- 
firmed the  right  in  the  strongest  form  of 
words  to  the  appellant,  but  decided  for 
peace's  sake  that  the  exercise  of  it  should 
remain  with  the  present  possessor.  At  the 
same  time,  he  slyly  rounded  the  first  lady 
in  the  ear,  that  an  action  might  lie  against 
the  Crown  for  hi-geny. 

It  beginning  to  grow  a  little  duskish. 
Candlemas  lustily  bawled  out  for  lights, 
which  was  opposed  by  all  the  Days,  who  pro- 
tested against  burning  daylight.  Then  fair 
water  Avas  handed  round  in  silver  ewers,, 
and  the  same  ladij  was  observed  to  take  an 
unusual  time  in  ^VasJiing  herself. 

May  Day,  with  that  sweetness  which  is 
peculiar  to  her,  in  a  neat  si^eech  proposing^ 
the  health  of  the  founder,  crowned  her  gob- 
let (and  by  her  example  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany) with  garlands.  This  being  done,  the 
lordly  New  Year  from  the  upper  end  of  the 
table,  in  a  cordial  but  somewhat  lofty  tone,. 


®Hc  Xn^t  (^^^m^  of  (Jrlia.        187 


returned  thanks.  lie  felt  proud  on  an  occa- 
sion of  meeting  so  many  of  his  wortliy 
father's  late  tenants,  promised  to  improve 
their  farms,  and  at  the  same  time  to  abate 
(if  anything  was  found  unreasonable)  in 
their  rents. 

At  the  mention  of  this,  the  four  Quarter 
Ikii/s  involuntarily  looked  at  each  other, 
and  smiled ;  April  Fool  whistled  to  an  old 
tune  of  "  New  Brooms ; "  and  a  surly  old 
rebel  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table  (who 
was  discovered  to  be  no  other  than  the  Fifth 
of  jVocemher)  muttered  out,  distinctly 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  whole  company, 
words  to  this  effect,  that  "when  the  old 
one  is  gone,  he  is  a  fool  that  looks  for  a  bet- 
ter." Which  rudeness  of  his,  the  guests 
resenting,  unanimously  voted  his  expulsion  ; 
and  the  malcontent  was  thrust  out  neck  and 
heels  into  the  cellar,  as  the  properest  x)lace 
for  such  a  houtcfeu  and  firebrand  as  he  had 
shown  liimself  to  be. 

Oi'der  being  restored — the  young  lord 
(who,  to  say  truth,  had  been  a  little  ruffled, 
and  put  beside  his  oratory)  in  as  few,  and 
yet  as  obliging  words  as  possible,  assured 
them  of  entire  welcome  ;  and,  with  a  grace- 
ful turn,  singling  out  jyoor  Twenty-KintJi  of 
February^  that  had  sat  all  this  while  mum- 
chance  at  the  sideboard,  begged  to  couple 
his  health  with  that  of  the  good  company 
before  hira, — which  ho  drank  accordingly ; 
observing,  that  he  had  not  seen  his  honest 


188  ehc  ITa.ot  (^^m;s  of  (?:'Uii. 


face  any  time  these  four  years, — with  a 
number  of  endearing  expressions  besides. 
At  tlie  same  time,  removing^  the  solitary 
J)ai/  from  tlie  forlorn  seat  which  had  been 
assigned  him,  he  stationed  him  at  his  own 
board,  somewhere  between  the  Greek  Cal- 
ends and  Latter  Lammas. 

Ash  Wednesda;/,  being  now  called  upon 
for  a  song,  with  his  eyes  fast  stuck  in  his 
head,  and  as  well  as  the  Canary  he  had 
swallowed  would  give  him  leave,  struck  up 
a  Carol,  which  Christmas  Day  had  taught 
him  for  the  nonce ;  and  Avas  followed  by  the 
latter,  who  gave  "^Miserere"  in  fine  style, 
hitting  otf  the  mumping  notes  and  length- 
ened drawl  of  Old  JSlortif.  cation  with  infinite 
humor.  April  Fool  swore  they  had  ex- 
changed conditions  ;  but  Good  Friday  was 
observed  to  look  extremely  grave;  and  aS'^^- 
day  held  her  fan  before  her  face,  that  she 
might  not  be  seen  to  smile. 

iSJirovetide^  Lord  Jfayor's  Lay,  and  Ajyril 
Fool  next  joined  in  a  glee — 

"  Which  is  tlie  properest  clay  to  drink  ?  " 

in  which  all  the  Lays  chiming  in,  made  a 
merry  burden. 

They  next  fell  to  quibbl.es  and  conun- 
drums. The  question  being  proposed,  who 
had  the  greatest  number  of  followers, — the 
Quarter  Lays  said,  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion as  to  that ;  for  they  had  all  the  cred- 


m\t  i;a.^t  (^'^rj:n3^  of  (gU«.         189 


itors  in  the  world  dogging  tlieir  heels.  But 
Ap7-il  Fool  gave  it  in  favor  of  tlie  Fortij 
Da>/s  before  Easter ;  because  the  debtors 
in  all  cases  outnunibered  the  creditors,  and 
they  kept  lent  all  tlie  year. 

All  this  while  l^dentine' s  Day  kept  court- 
ing pretty  J/c/y,  who  sat  next  him,  slipping 
amorous  billets-doux  uuiXev  the  table,  till  the 
Dog  Dai/s  (who  are  naturally  of  a  warm 
constitution)  began  to  be  jealous,  and  to 
bark  and  rage  exceedingly.  April  Fool, 
who  likes  a  bit  of  sport  above  measure,  and 
had  some  pretensions  to  the  lady  besides,  as 
being  but  a  cousin  once  removed, — clapped 
and  halloo'd  them  on ;  and  as  fast  as  their 
indignation  cooled,  those  mad  wags,  the 
Ember  Dei^/s^  were  at  it  with  their  bellows, 
to  blow  it  into  a  flame  ;  and  all  was  in  a  fer- 
ment; till  old  Madam  ^Septuagesimei  (who 
boasts  herself  the  Mother  of  the  Days)  wisely 
diverted  the  conversation  with  a  tedious  tale 
of  the  lovers  which  she  could  reckon  Avhen 
she  was  young ;  and  of  one  Master  Dona- 
tion Daij  in  pai'ticular,  Avho  was  forever  put- 
ting the  question  to  her ;  but  she  kept  him 
at  a  distance,  as  the  chronicle  would  tell, — • 
by  whicii  I  apprehend  she  meant  the  Al- 
manac. Then  she  rambled  on  to  the  Daijs 
that  icere  gone,  the  good  old  Dags,  and  so  to 
the  Dags  before  the  Flood, — which  plainly 
showed  her  old  head  to  be  little  better  than 
crazed  and  doited. 

Day  being  ended,   the   Dags  called  for 


190         (The  i:a.$t  it^^r^  of  (^lia. 


their  cloaks  and  greatcoats,  and  took  their 
leaves.  Lord  3Iatjor's  Day  went  oft'  in  a 
JMist,  as  usual ;  Shortest  Day  in  a  deep  black 
Fog,  that  wrapt  the  little  gentleman  all 
round  like  a  hedge-hog.  Two  Ylylls — so 
Avatchmen  are  called  in  lieaven — saw  C7ii'ist- 
mas  Day  safe  home, — they  had  been  used 
to  the  business  before.  Another  Mgil — a 
stout,  sturdy  patrole,  called  the  Ere  of  St. 
C/iristop/ter — seeing  Ash  ^Vednesday  in  a 
condition  little  better  than  he  should  be, — ■ 
e'en  Avhipt  him  over  his  shoulders,  pick-a- 
pack  fashion,  and  Old  Mortification  went 
floating  home  singing — 

"  On  the  bat's  back  do  I  fly," 

and  a  number  of  old  snatches  besides,  be- 
tween drunk  and  sober;  but  very  few 
Aves  or  Penitentiaries  (you  may  believe 
me)  were  among  them.  Longest  Day  set 
off  westward  in  beautiful  crimson  and  gold, 
— the  rest,  some  in  one  fashion,  some  in  an- 
other ;  but  Valentine  and  pretty  3Iay  took 
their  departure  together  in  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest silvery  twilights  a  Lover's  Day  could 
wish  to  set  in. 


(Lht  £i\rA  if:$^n\0  ox  (bM»         191 


Old  China, 

I  HAVE  an  almost  feminine  partiality  for 
old  china.  When  I  go  to  see  any  great 
house,  I  inquire  for  the  china-closet,  and 
next  for  the  picture  gallery.  I  cannot  de- 
fend the  order  of  in'eference,  but  by  saying, 
that  we  have  all  some  taste  or  other,  of  too 
ancient  a  date  to  admit  of  our  rememljering 
distinctly  that  it  was  an  acquired  one.  I 
can  call  to  mind  the  first  play,  and  the  first 
exhibition,  that  I  was  taken  to ;  but  I  am 
not  conscious  of  a  time  Avhen  china  jars  and 
saucers  were  introduced  into  my  imagina- 
tion. 

I  had  no  repugnance  then — why  should  I 
now  have  ? — to  those  little,  lawless,  azure- 
tinctured  grotesques  that,  under  the  notion 
of  men  and  women,  float  about,  uncircura- 
scribed  by  any  element,  in  that  world  be- 
fore perspective — a  chiua  tea-cup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends — whom  dis- 
tance cannot  diminish — figuring  up  in  the 
air  (so  they  appear  to  our  optics),  yet  on 
terra  firnia  still, — for  so  Ave  must  in  court- 
esy interpret  that  speck  of  deei:)er  blue, — 


192         ©he  |:a^t  (^^mp  of  min, 

which  the  decorous  artist,  to  prevent  ab- 
surdity, had  made  to  siDring  up  beneath 
their  sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,  and 
the  women,  if  possible,  with  still  more 
womanish  expressions. 

Here  is  a  youngs  and  courtly  Mandarin, 
handing  tea  to  a  lady  from  a  salver — two 
miles  oli".  See  how  distance  seeins  to  set  off 
respect !  x\nd  here  the  same  lady,  or  an- 
other— for  likeness  is  identity  on  tea-cups — 
is  stepping-  into  a  fairy  boat,  moored  on  the 
hither  side  of  this  calm  g-arden  river,  with  a 
dainty  mincing  foot,  which  in  a  right  angle 
of  incidence  (as  angles  go  in  our  world) 
must  infallibly  land  her  in  the  midst  of  a 
flowery  mead — a  furlong  off  on  the  other 
side  of  the  same  strange  stream  ! 

Farther  on — if  far  or  near  can  be  predi- 
cated of  their  world — see  horses,  trees,  pago- 
das, dancing  the  hays. 

Here — a  cow  and  rabbit  coucliant  and  co- 
extensive,— so  objects  show,  seen  through 
the  lucid  atmosphere  of  line  Cathay. 

I  was  pointing  out  to  my  cousin  last  even- 
ing, over  our  Ilyson  (which  we  are  old- 
fashioned  enough  to  drink  unmixed  still  of 
an  afternoon),  some  of  these  speciosa  mira- 
cula  upon  a  set  of  extraordinary  old  blue  china 
(a  recent  purchase)  which  we  were  now  for 
the  first  time  using ;  and  could  not  help  re- 
marking, how  favorable  circumstances  had 
been  to  us  of  late  years,  that  we  could  afford 


^U  ps-t  (t^^n^^  of  mn.         193 


to  please  the  eye  sometimes  with  trifles  of 
this  sort — when  a  passing  sentiment  seemed 
to  oversliade  the  brows  of  my  companion, 
I  am  quick  at  detecting  these  summer  clouds 
in  Bridget. 

"  I  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come 
again,"  she  said,  "  when  we  were  not  quite 
so  rich.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  want  to  be 
poor ;  but  there  was  a  middle  state  " — so  she 
^ras  pleased  to  ramble  on — "in  which  I  am 
sure  we  were  a  great  deal  happier.  A  i^ur- 
chase  is  but  a  purchase,  now  that  you 
have  money  enough  and  to  spare.  Formerly 
it  used  to  be  a  triumph.  When  we  coveted 
a  cheap  luxury  (and,  O !  how  much  ado  I 
had  to  get  you  to  consent  in  those  times !) — • 
we  were  used  to  have  a  debate  two  or  three 
days  before,  and  to  weigh  the/or  and  against^ 
and  to  think  what  we  might  spare  it  out  of, 
and  what  saving  we  could  hit  upon,  that 
should  be  an  equivalent.  A  thing  was 
worth  buying  then,  when  we  felt  the  money 
that  we  paid  for  it. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which 
you  made  to  hang  upon  j^ou,  till  all  your 
friends  cried  shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so 
threadbare — and  all  because  of  that  folio 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which  you  dragged 
home  late  at  night  from  Barker's  in  Covent 
Garden  ?  Do  you  rememljer  how  we  eyed 
it  for  weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our 
minds  to  the  jourcliase,  and  had  not  come  to 
a  determination  till  it  was  near  ten  o'clock 
13 


194        Z\u  g:a,$t  (^^^inp  of  (!:»a. 


of  the  Saturday  night,  when  you  set  off 
from  Islington,  fearing  you  should  be  too 
late, — and  wiien  the  old  bookseller  with 
some  grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by 
the  twilight  taper  (for  he  was  setting  bed- 
wards)  lighted  out  the  relic  from  his  dusty 
treasures, — and  when  you  lugged  it  home, 
wishing  it  were  twice  as  cumbersome, — and 
when  you  presented  it  to  me,— and  when 
W'B  were  exploring  the  perfectness  of  it 
(coNati/if/  you  called  it), — and  while  I  w^as 
repairhig  some  of  the  loose  leaves  with  ])aste 
which  your  impatience  would  not  suffer  to 
be  left  till  daybreak, — was  there  no  pleasure 
in  being  a  poor  man?  or  can  those  neat 
black  clothes  which  you  wear  now,  and  are 
so  careful  to  keep  brushed,  since  Ave  have 
become  rich  and  finical,  give  j^ou  half  the 
honest  vanitj^,  with  which  you  flaunted  it 
about  in  that  overworn  suit — your  old  cor- 
beau — for  four  or  five  weeks  longer  than  you 
should  have  done,  to  pacify  your  conscience 
for  the  mighty  sura  of  fifteen — or  sixteen 
shillings  was  it  ? — a  great  affair  we  thought 
it  then — which  3-ou  had  lavislied  on  the  old 
folio.  Now  you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book 
that  pleases  you,  but  I  do  not  see  that  you 
ever  bring  me  home  any  nice  old  purchases 
now. 

"When  you  came  home  with  twenty 
apologies  for  laying  out  a  less  number  of 
shillings  upon  that  print  after  Lionardo, 
which  we  christened  the  '  Lady  Blanch ; ' 


Wht  fa^f  (g,s\$aij,«  of  (gUa.        195 


ivhen  yon  looked  at  the  purchase,  and 
thought  of  the  money,^and  looked  again  at 
the  picture, — was  there  no  jjleasure  in  being 
a  poor  man?  Xow,  you  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  walk  into  Colnaghi's,  and  buy  a  wilder- 
ness of  Lionardos.     Yet  do  you  ? 

"  Then,  do  3'ou  remember  our  pleasant 
Avalks  to  Enfield,  and  Potter's  bar,  and 
"SValtham,  when  we  had  a  holidaj^ — holidays, 
and  all  other  fun,  are  gone  now  we  are  rich — 
and  the  little  hand-basket  in  which  I  used  to 
deposit  our  day's  fare  of  savory  cold  lamb 
and  salad,— and  how  you  would  pry  about 
at  noonday  for  some  decent  house,  where 
we  might  go  in  and  produce  our  store — only 
paying  for  the  ale  that  you  must  call  for — 
and  speculate  upon  the  looks  of  the  land- 
lady, and  Avhether  she  was  lilvcly  to  allow 
us  a  tal)lecloth, — and  wish  for  such  another 
honest  hostess,  as  Izaak  Walton  has  de- 
scribed many  a  one  on  the  pleasant  banks  of 
the  Lea,  when  we  Avent  a-fishing — and  some- 
times they  would  prove  obliging  enough, 
and  sometimes  they  would  look  grudgingly 
upon  us, — but  we  had  cheerful  looks  still 
for  one  another,  and  would  eat  our  plain 
food  savorily,  scarcely  grudging  Piscator 
his  Trout  Hall  ?  Xow — when  we  go  out  a 
day's  pleasuring,  which  is  seldom  moreover, 
we  ricle  part  of  the  way — and  go  into  a  fine 
inn,  and  order  the  best  of  dinners,  never  de- 
bating the  expense — which,  after  all,  never 
has  half  the  relish  of  those  chance  country 


il;G        ^u  'g^^i  (g^,$ay,^  of  (gUa. 


snaps,  when  we  were  at  the  mercy  of  uncer- 
tain usage,  and  a  precarious  welcome. 

"  You  are  too  j^roud  to  see  a  play  any- 
where now  but  in  the  pit.  Do  you  remem- 
ber where  it  was  we  used  to  sit  when  Ave 
saw  the  Battle  of  Hexham,  and  the  Surren- 
der of  Calais,  and  Bannister  and  Mrs.  Bland 
in  the  Children  in  the  Wood, — when  we 
squeezed  out  our  shillings  apiece  to  sit  three 
or  four  times  in  a  season  in  the  one-shilling 
gallery — where  you  felt  all  the  time  that 
you  ought  not  to  have  brought  me — and 
more  strongly  1  felt  obligation  to  you  for  hav- 
ing brought  me — and  the  pleasure  was  the  • 
better  for  a  little  shame, — and  when  the  cur- 
tain drew  up,  Avliat  cared  we  for  our  place 
in  the  house,  or  what  mattered  it  where  we 
were  sitting,  when  our  thoughts  were  with 
Rosalind  in  Arden,  or  with  Viola  at  tlie 
court  of  Illyria  ?  You  used  to  say,  that  the 
Gallery  was  the  best  place  of  all  for  enjoy- 
ing a  play  socialh",— that  the  relish  of  such 
exhibitions  must  be  in  proportion  to  the  in- 
frequency  of  going, — that  the  company  we 
met  there,  not  being  in  general  readers  of 
plays,  were  obliged  to  attend  the  more,  and 
did  attend,  to  what  wag  going  on,  on  the 
stage,— because  a  word  lost  would  have  been 
a  chasm,  which  it  was  impossible  for  them 
to  fill  up.  With  such  reflections  we  consoled 
our  pride  then, — and  I  appeal  to  you,, 
whether,  as  a  woman,  I  met  generally  with 
less  attention  and    accommodation  than  I 


tave  done  since  in  more  expensive  situations 
in  the  lionse  ?  The  getting  in  indeed,  and 
tlie  crowding  up  tliose  inconvenient  stair- 
cases was  bad  enough, — but  there  ^^■as  still 
a  law  of  civilitj^  to  woman  recognized  to 
quite  as  great  an  extent  as  we  ever  found  in 
the  otlier  passages, — and  how  a  httle  difB- 
culty  overcome  heightened  the  snug  seat  and 
tlie  play,  afterwards !  Now  we  can  only  pay 
our  money  and  Avalk  in.  You  cannot  see, 
you  say,  in  tlie  galleries  now.  I  am  sure  we 
saw,  and  heard  too,  well  enough  then, — but 
sight,  and  all,  I  think,  is  gone  with  our 
povert3\ 

"  There  Avas  pleasure  in  eating  straw- 
loerries,  before  they  came  quite  common — in 
the  first  dish  of  peas,  while  they  were  yet 
■dear — to  have  them  for  a  nice  supper,  a  treat. 
What  treat  can  we  have  now  ?  If  Ave  were 
to  treat  ourselves  now, — that  is,  to  have  dain- 
ties a  little  above  our  means,  it  Avould  be 
selfish  and  wicked.  It  is  the  very  little 
more  that  Ave  alloAV  ourseh'es  beyond  what 
the  actual  poor  can  get  at,  that  makes  Avhat 
I  call  a  treat, — when  two  people  liAang  to- 
gether, as  Ave  have  done,  noAV  and  then  in- 
dulge themseh-es  in  a  cheap  luxury,  Avhicli 
both  like ;  Avhile  each  apologizes,  and  is  will- 
ing to  take  both  hah^es  of  the  blame  to  his 
single  share.  I  see  no  harm  in  people  mak- 
ing much  of  themselves,  in  that  sense  of  the 
word.  It  may  giA^e  them  a  hint  how  to  make 
much  of  others.     But  noAV — what  I  mean  by 


198        ©he  fa.sit  (*?,^,$ay.«  at  mn. 


the  word — we  never  clo  make  much  of  our- 
selves. None  but  the  poor  can  do  it.  I  do- 
not  mean  the  veriest  poor  of  all,  but  persons 
as  we  Avere,  just  above  iwverty. 

"  I  know  wliat  you  were  going  to  say,  that 
it  is  mighty  pleasant  at  the  end  of  the  year 
to  make  all  meet, — and  much  ado  we  used 
to  have  every  Thirty-th-st  night  of  Decem- 
ber to  account  for  our  exceedings, — many  a 
long  face  did  you  make  over  your  puzzled 
accounts,  and  in  contriving  to  make  it  out 
how  we  had  spent  so  nuicli — or  that  we  had 
not  spent  so  much — or  that  it  was  im- 
possible we  should  spend  so  much  next 
year, — and  still  Ave  found  our  slender  c;ipi- 
tal  decreasing, — but  then, — ^betwixt  ways, 
and  projects,  and  compromises  of  one  sort 
or  another,  and  talk  of  curtailing  this 
charge,  and  doing  without  that  for  the  fut- 
ure,— and  the  hope  that  youth  brings,  and. 
laughing  spirits  (in  which  you  wpre  never 
poor  till  now),  we  pocketed  up  our  loss,  and 
in  conclusion,  with  '  lusty  brimmers  '  (as  you. 
used  to  quote  it  out  of  heart//,  cheerful  Mr.  . 
Cotton,  as  you  called  him),  we  used  to  wel- 
come in  the  '  coming  guest.'  ISTow  we  have- 
no  reckoning  at  all  at  the  end  of  the  old 
year, — no  flattering  promises  about  the  nevr 
year  doing  better  for  us." 

Bridget  is  so  sparing  of  her  speech  on 
most  occasions,  that  when  she  gets  into  a 
rhetorical  vein,  1  am  careful  how  I  interrupt 
it.    I   could  not  help,  however,  smiling  at. 


©he  fiv^i't  (^^m^  0^  ^li«-        199 


the  phantom  of  wealth  which  her  dear  imag- 
ination liad  conjured  up  out  of  a  clear  in- 
come of  poor hundred  pounds  a  year. 

"  It  is  true  Ave  Avere  happier  when  we  were 
poorer,  but  Ave  were  also  younger,  my  cous- 
in. I  am  afraid  wq  must  put  up  AA-itli  the 
excess,  for  if  aa^c  AA^ere  to  shake  the  superflux 
into  the  sea,  avo  should  not  much  mend  our- 
selves. That  AA'e  had  much  to  struggle  Avith, 
as  AA'C  grew  up  together,  Ave  have  reason  to 
be  most  thankful.  It  strengthened,  and  knit 
our  compact  closer.  Vv^e  Avould  ncA'cr  liaA'Q 
been  Avhat  Ave  liaA^e  been  to  each  other,  if  Ave 
had  ahvays  had  the  suiuciency  which  younoAV 
complain  of.  The  resisting  poAver, — those 
natural  dilations  of  the  youthful  spirit  Avhicli 
circumstances  cannot  straiten, — Avitli  us  are 
long  since  passed  aAvay.  Competence  to 
age  is  supplementary  youth,  a  sorry  supple- 
ment indeed,  but  I  fear  the  best  that  is  to 
be  had.  "We  must  ride  Avhere  Ave  formerly 
walked  ;  live  better  and  lie  softer — and  shall 
be  Avise  to  do  so — than  Ave  had  means  to  do 
in  those  good  old  days  you  speak  of.  Yet 
could  those  days  return, — could  you  and  I 
once  more  Avalk  our  thirty  miles  a  day, — 
could  Bannister  and  ]\Irs.  Bland  again  be 
young,  and  you  and  I  be  young  to  see  them, 
— could  the  good  old  one-shilling  gallery 
days  return, — they  are  dreams,  my  cousin, 
noAV, — but  could  you  and  I  at  this  moment,, 
instead  of  this  quiet  argument,  by  our  Avell- 
carpeted  tire-side,  sitting  on  this  luxurious- 


200         JThc  ^a.st  (^^^mp  of  (^lia. 


sofa, — he  once  more  struggling  up  those  in- 
convenient staircases,  puslied  about,  and 
squeezed,  and  elbowed  b}-  the  poorest  rabble 
of  poor  gallery  scrambles, — could  I  once 
more  hear  those  anxious  shrieks  of  yours, — 
and  the  delicious  Thank  God.,  toe  are  safe, 
which  always  followed  when  the  topmost 
stair,  conquered,  let  in  the  first  light  of  the 
whole  cheerful  theater  down  beneath  us, — I 
know  not  the  fathom  line  that  ever  touched 
a  descent  so  deep  as  I  would  be  willing  to 
bury  more  wealth  in  than  Croesus  had,  or 

the  great  Jew  R is  supposed  to  have,  to 

purchase  it.  And  now  do  just  look  at  that 
merry  little  Chinese  Avaiter  holding  an  um- 
brella, big  enough  for  a  bed-tester,  over  the 
head  of  that  pretty  insipid  half  ]Madonna- 
ish  chit  of  a  lady  in  that  very  blue  sumuier- 
liouse." 


mc  fa^t  (g^'.saa.^  0i  mm.        201 


The  ChiSd  Angel :  A  Dream. 

I  CHAXCED  upon  the  prettiest,  oddest,  fan- 
tastical tliin,^  of  a  dream  tlie  other  night, 
that  you  sliall  hear  of.  I  had  been  reading 
the  "  Loves  of  the  Angels,"  and  went  to  bed 
■with  my  head  full  of  speculations,  suggested 
by  that  extraordinary  legend.  It  had  given 
birth  to  innumerable  conjectures  ;  and  I  re- 
member tlie  last  waking  thougiit  which  I 
gave  expression  to  on  my  pillow,  M'as  a  sort 
of  wonder  "  what  could  come  of  it." 

I  was  suddenly  transported,  how  or 
"whither  I  could  scarcely  make  out, — but  to 
some  celestial  region.  It  was  not  the  real 
heavens  neither — not  the  downright  Bible 
heaven — but  a  kind  of  fairy-land  heaven 
about  which  a  poor  human  fancy  may  have 
leave  to  sport  and  air  itself,  1  will  hope, 
without  presumption. 

Methought — what  wild  things  dreams 
are  I — I  Avas  present — at  what  would  you 
imagine  ? — at  an  angel's  gossiping. 

Whence  it  came,  or  how  it  came,  or  who 
l)id  it  come,  or  whether  it  came  purely  of 
its  own  head,  neither  you  nor  I  know — but 


202         5:he  Xn$t  (^$m\^  ot  min. 


there  lay,  sure  enough,  wrapping  in  its  little 
cloudy  swaddling-bands — a  Child  Angel. 

Sun-threads — filmy  beams — ran  through 
the  celestial  napery  of  what  seemed  its 
princely  cradle.  All  the  winged  orders 
hovered  round,  watching  when  the  new-born 
should  open  its  yet  closed  eyes ;  which,  when 
it  did,  first  one,  and  then  the  other, — with 
a  solicitude  and  apprehension,  yet  not  such 
as,  stained  with  fear,  dim  the  expanding  eye- 
lids of  mortal  infants,  but  as  if  to  explore  its 
path  in  those  its  unhereditar}'-  palaces, — 
what  an  inextinguishable  titter  that  time 
spared  not  celestial  visages !  Xor  Avanted 
there  to  my  seeming, — O  the  inexplicable 
simpleness  of  dreams  !  bowls  of  that  cheer- 
ing nectar, 

" — wliich  mortals  caudle  call  below," 

!Kor  were  wanting  faces  of  female  minis- 
trants, — stricken  in  years,  as  it  might  seem^ 
— so  dexterous  were  those  heavenly  attend- 
ants to  counterfeit  kindly  similitudes  of 
earth,  to  greet,  with  terrestrial  child-rites 
the  young  pre^ent^  which  earth  had  made  to 
heaven. 

Then  were  celestial  harpings  heard,  not  in 
full  symphony  as  those  by  Avhich  the  spheres 
are  tutored  ;  but,  as  loudest  instruments  on 
earth  speak  oftentimes,  muffled;  so  to  ac- 
commodate their  sound  the  better  to  the 
weak  ears  of  the  imperfect-born.    And,  with 


5:iic  p,$t  tf\^.5ay,$  cf  (glia.         203 

the  noise  of  those  subdued  soundings,  the 
Angelet  sprang  forth,  fluttering  its  rudi- 
ments of  pinions, — but  forthwitli  flagged 
and  was  recovered  into  tlie  arms  of  those 
fuII-winged  angels.  And  a  wonder  it  ^^'as 
to  see  how,  as  years  Avent  around  in  heaven 
— a  year  in  dreams  is  as  a  day — continually 
its  white  shoulders  put  forth  buds  of  wings, 
but  wanting  the  perfect  angelic  nutriment, 
anon  was  shorn  of  its  aspiring,  and  fell  flut- 
tering,— still  caught  by  angel  hands, — for- 
ever to  put  forth  shoots,  and  to  fall  flutter- 
ing, because  its  birth  was  not  of  the  unmixed 
vigor  of  heaven. 

And  a  name  Avas  given  to  the  Babe  An- 
gel, and  it  was  to  be  called  Ge-  Uranlay 
because  its  production  was  of  earth  ancL 
heaven. 

And  it  could.not  taste  of  death,  by  reason 
of  its  adoption  into  immortal  palaces;  but 
it  Avas  to  knoAV  weakness,  and  •  reliance,  and 
the  shadow  of  human  imbecility ;  and  it 
went  with  a  lame  gait ;  but  in  its  goings  it 
exceeded  all  mortal  children  in  grace  and 
swiftness.  Then  pity  first  sprung  up  in 
angelic  bosoms;  and  yearnings  (like  the 
human)  touched  them  at  the  sight  of  the 
immortal  lame  one. 

And  Avith  pain  did  then  first  those  Intui- 
tive Essences,  Avith  pain  and  strife,  to  their 
natures  (not  grief),  put  back  their  bright 
intelligences,  and  reduce  their  ethereal  minds, 
schooling  them  to  degrees  and  sloAver  pro- 


cesses,  so  to  adapt  their  lessons  to  the  grad- 
ual illuniination  (as  must  needs  be)  of  the 
half-earth-born  and  what  intuitive  notices 
they  oould  not  repel  (by  reason  that  their 
nature  is,  to  know  all  things  at  once),  the 
half-heavenly  novice,  by  the  better  part  of 
its  nature,  aspired  to  receive  into  its  under- 
standin,^;  so  that  Humility  and  Asi^iration 
went  on  even-paced  in  the  instruction  of  the 
glorious  Amphibium. 

But,  by  reason  that  Mature  Humanity  is 
too  gross  to  breathe  the  air  of  that  super- 
subtile  region,  its  portion  Avas,  and  is,  to  be 
a  child  forever. 

And  because  the  human  part  of  it  might 
not  press  into  the  heart  and  inwards  of  the 
i:»alace  of  its  adoption,  those  full-natured 
angels  tended  it  by  turns  in  the  purlieus  of 
the  palace,  where  were  shady  groves  and 
rivulets,  like  this  green  earth  from  which  it 
came ;  so  Love,  with  Voluntary  Humility, 
waited  upon  the  entertainment  of  the  new- 
adopted. 

And  myriads  of  years  rolled  round  (in 
dreams  Time  is  nothing),  and  still  it  kept, 
and  is  to  keep,  perpetual  childhood,  and  is 
the  Tutelar  Genius  of  childhood  upon  earth, 
and  still  goes  lame  and  lovel3^ 

By  the  banks  of  the  river  Pison  is  seen, 
lone  sitting  by  the  grave  of  the  terrestrial 
Adah,  whom  the  angel  Nadir  loved,  a  child ; 
but  not  the  same  which  I  saw  in  heaven. 
A  mournful  hue  overcasts  its  lineaments  j 


®hf  fa^t  (^^m^  o(  min,        205 

nevertheless  a  correspondency  .is  between  the 
child  by  the  grave  and  that  celestial  orphan, 
whom  I  saw  above ;  and  the  dimness  of  the 
grief  upon  the  heavenly,  is  a  shadow  or  em- 
blem of  that  which  stains  the  beauty  of  the 
terrestrial.  And  this  correspondency  is  not 
to  be  understood  but  by  dreams. 

And  in  the  archives  of  heaven  I  had  grace 
to  read,  how  that  once  the  angel  Nadir,  be- 
ing exiled  from  his  place  for  mortal  passion, 
upspringing  on  the  wings  of  parental  love 
(such  power  had  parental  love  for  a  moment 
to  suspend  the  else-irrevocable  law),  ap- 
peared for  a  brief  instance  in  his  station, 
and,  depositing  a  wondrous  Birth,  straight- 
way disappeared,  and  the  palaces  knew  him 
no  more.  And  this  was  the  self-same  Babe, 
who  goeth  lame  and  lovely, — out  Adah, 
sleepeth  by  the  river  Jr'iaou. 


20G        She  ITasit  (gs'^ay.si  of  (f^lm. 


Confessions  of  a  Drunkard. 

Deiioetatioxs  from  the  use  of  strong 
liquors  have  been  the  favorite  topic  of  sober 
declainiei's  in  all  ages,  and  have  been  re- 
ceived with  abundance  of  applause  by  water- 
drinking-  critics.  But  with  the  patient  him- 
self, the  man  that  is  to  be  cured,  unfortu- 
nately, their  sound  has  seldom  prevailed. 
Yet  the  evil  is  acknowledged,  the  remedy 
simple.  Abstain.  Xo  force  can  oblige  a 
man  to  raise  the  glass  to  his  head  against 
his  will.  'Tis  as  easy  as  not  to  steal,  not  to 
tell  lies. 

Alas !  the  haiid  to  pilfer,  and  the  tongue 
to  bear  false  witness,  have  no  constitutional 
tendency.  These  are  actions  indifferent  to 
them.  At  the  first  instance  of  the  reformed 
will,  they  can  be  brought  olf  without  a 
murmur.  The  itching  finger  is  bu'.  a  figure 
in  speech,  and  tlie  tongue  of  the  liar  can 
with  the  same  natural  delight  give  forth 
Useful  truths  with  which  it  lias  been  accus- 
tomed to  scatter  their  pernicious  contraries. 
But  when  a  man  has  commenced  sot 

O  pause,  thou  sturdy  moralist,  thou  per- 
son of  stout  nerves  and  a  strong    head, 


^he  p.^t  (t^m^  of  miix.         207 

whose  liver  is  happily  untouched,  and  ere 
thy  gorge  riseth  at  the  name  which  I  have 
written,  first  learn  what  the  thi?i(/  is ;  how 
much  of  compassion,  how  much  of  human 
allowance,  thou  mayest  virtuously  mingle 
with  thy'  disapprobation.  Trample  not  on 
the  riiins  of  a  man.  Exact  not,  under  so 
terrible  a  penalty  as  infamj^  a  resuscitation 
from  a  state  of  death  almost  as  real  as 
that  from  which  Lazarus  rose  not  but  by  a 
luiracle. 

Begin  a  reformation,  and  custom  will 
make  ib  easj'.  But  what  if  the  beginning  be 
dreadful,  the  first  steps  not  like  climbing  a 
mountain  but  going  through  fire  ?  what  if 
the  whole  system  must  undergo  a  change 
violent  as  that  which  \vg  conceive  of  the 
mutation  of  form  in  some  insects  ?  what  if 
a  process  comparable  to  flaj'ing  alive  be  to 
be  gone  through  ?  is  the  weakness  that  sinks 
under  such  struggles  to  be  confounded  with 
the  i)ertinacity  which  clings  to  other  vices, 
which  have  induced  no  constitutional  neces- 
s'ltj,  no  engagements  of  the  whole  victim, 
body  and  soul  ? 

I  have  known  one  in  that  state,  when  he 
has  tried  to  abstain  but  for  one  eveiJng, — 
though  the  poisonous  potion  had  long  ceased 
to  bring  back  its  first  enchantments,  though 
he  was  sure  it  would  rather  deepen  his 
gloom  than  brighten  it, — in  the  violence  of 
the  struggle,  and  the  necessity  he  has  felt  of 
getting  rid  of  the  present  sensation  at  any 


208        ^]it  |:a^t  (B^^m^  tfi  min. 


rate,  I  have  known  him  to  scream  out,  to  cry" 
aloud,  for  the  anguish  and  pain  of  the  strife 
witliin  him. 

Wliy  should  I  hesitate  to  declare,  that  the 
man  of  wliom  I  speak  is  myself '?  Ihave  no- 
puling'  apology  to  make  to  mankind.  I  see 
them  all  in  one  way  or  another  deviating- 
from  the  pure  reason.  It  is  to  my  own  na- 
ture alone  I,  am  accountable  for  the  woe  that 
I  have  brought  upon  it. 

I  believe  that  there  are  constitutions,  ro- 
bust heads,  and  iron  insides,  whom  scarce 
any  excesses  can  hurt ;  whom  brandy  (I 
have  seen  them  drink  it  like  wine),  at  all 
events  whom  wine,  taken  in  ever  so  plenti- 
ful a  measure,  can  do  no  worse  injury  tO' 
than  just  to  muddle  their  faculties,  perhaps 
never  very  pellucid.  On  them  this  dis- 
course is  Avasted.  They  v/ould  but  laugh  at 
a  Aveak  brother,  who,  trying  his  strength 
with  them,  and  coming  off  foiled  from  the 
contest,  would  fain  persuade  them  that  such 
antagonistic  exercises  are  dangerous.  It  is 
to  a  very  different  description  of  persons  I 
speak.  It  is  to  the  weak,  the  nervous  ;  tO' 
those  who  feel  the  want  of  some  artificial 
4^-i  to  raise  tlieir  spirits  in  society  to  what 
is  710  more  than  the  ordinary  pitch  of  all 
around  them  without  it.  This  is  the  secret 
^f  our  drinking.  Such  must  fly  the  convi- 
vial board  in  the  first  instance,  if  they  dO' 
not  mean  to  sell  themselves  for  term  of  life. 

Twelve  years  ago  I  had  completed  my  six- 


©He  Wn^t  (^^$n\p  at  mm,         209 

and-twentietli  year.  I  had  lived  from  the 
period  of  leaving  school  to  that  time  pretty 
much  ill  solitude.  My  companions  were 
chiefly  books,  or  at  most  one  or  two  living 
ones  of  my  own  book-loving  and  sober  stamp. 
I  rose  eaiiy,  went  to  bed  betimes,  and  the 
faculties  which  God  had  given  me,  I  have 
reason  to  think,  did  not  rust  in  me  unused. 

About  that  time  I  fell  in  with  some  com- 
panions of  a  different  order.  They  were 
men  of  boisterous  spirits,  sitters  up  a-nights, 
disputants,  drunken ;  yet  seemed  to  have 
something  noble  about  them.  We  dealt  about 
the  wit,  or  what  passes  for  it  after  midnight, 
jovially.  Of  the  quality  called  fancy  I  cer- 
tainly possessed  a  larger  share  thanmy  com- 
l-)anions.  Encouraged  by  their  applause,  I 
set  up  for  a  professed  joker  I — T,  who  of  all 
men  am  least  fitted  for  such  an  occupation, 
having,  in  addition  to  the  greatest  difficulty 
which  I  experience  at  all  times  of  finding 
words  to  express  my  meaning,  a  natural 
nervous  impediment  in  my  speech ! 

Reader,  if  you  are  gifted  with  nerves  like 
mine,  aspire  to  any  character  but  that  of  a 
wit.  When  you  find  a  tickling  relish  upon 
your  tongue  disposing  you  to  that  sort  of 
conversation,  especially  if  you  find  a  preter- 
natural flow  of  ideas  setting  in  upon  you  at 
the  sight  of  a  bottle  and  fresh  glasses,  avoid 
giving  way  to  it  as  j^ou  would  fly  your 
greatest  destruction.  If  yoii  cannot  crush 
the  power  of  fancy,  or  that  within  you  which 
14 


210        ^ht  i:a,$t  (gis^ay,^  of  (gtia. 

you  mistake  for  such,  divert  it,  give  it  some 
otlier  play.  Write  an  essay,  pen  a  charac- 
ter or  description,— but  not  as  I  do  now, 
witli  tears  trickling  down  your  cheeks. 

To  be  an  object  of  compassion  to  friends, 
of  derision  to  foes  ;  to  be  suspected  by 
strangers,,  stared  at  by  fools  ;  to  be  esteemed 
dull  when  you  cannot  be  witty,  to  be  ap- 
plauded for  witty  when  j'ou  know  that  you 
have  been  dull ;  to  be  called  upon  for  the 
extemporaneous  exercise  of  that  faculty 
which  no  premeditation  can  give ;  to  be 
spurred  on  to  efforts  which  end  in  contempt ; 
to  be  set  on  to  provoke  mirth  which  pro- 
cures the  procurer  hatred ;  to  give  pleasure 
and  be  paid  with  squinting  malice;  to  swal- 
low draughts  of  life-destroying  wine  which 
are  to  be  distilled  into  airy  breath  to  tickle 
vain  auditors  ;  to  mortgage  miserable  mor- 
rows for  nights  of  madness  ;  to  waste  whole 
seas  of  time  upon  those  who  pay  it  back 
in  little  inconsiderable  drops  of  grudging 
applause,— are  the  w^ages  of  buffoonery  and 
death. 

Time,  which  has  a  sure  stroke  at  dissolv- 
ing all  connections  which  have  no  solider 
fastening  than  this  liquid  cement  more  kind 
to  me  than  my  own  taste  or  penetration,  at 
length  opened  my  eyes  to  the  supposed  quali- 
ties of  my  first  friends.  No  trace  of  them 
is  left  but  in  the  vices  Avhich  they  introduced, 
and  the  habits  they  infixed.  In  them  my 
friends  survive  still,  and  exercise  ample  ret- 


®h?  fa^t  (g^isayis  of  (gilia.        211 


ribution  for  any  supposed  infidelity  that  I 
may  liave  been  guilty  of  towards  them. 

My  next  more  immediate  companions  were 
and  are  persons  of  such  intrinsic  and  felt 
worth  that  though  accidentally  their  ac- 
quaintance has  proved  pernicious  to  me,  I 
do  not  know  that  if  the  thing  were  to  do 
over  again,  I  should  have  the  courage  to 
eschew  the  mischief  at  the  price  of  forfeiting 
the  benefit.  I  came  to  them  reeking  from 
the  steams  of  my  late  overheated  notions  of 
companionship ;  and  the  slightest  fuel  which 
they  unconsciously  aft'orded  was  sufficient 
to  feed  my  old  fires  into  a  propensity. 

They  were  no  drinkers,  but,  one  from 
XDrofessional  habits,  and  another  from  a  cus- 
tom derived  from  his  father,  smoked  tobacco. 
The  devil  could  not  have  devised  a  more 
subtle  trap  to  retake  a  backsliding  penitent. 
The  transition,  from  gulping  down  draughts 
of  liquid  fire  to  puffing  out  innocuous  blasts 
of  dry  smoke,  was  so  like  cheating  him. 
But  he  is  too  hard  for  us  when  we  hope  to 
commute.  He  beats  us  at  barter  ;  and  when 
we  think  to  set  off  a  new  failing  against  an 
old  infirmity,  'tis  odds  but  he  puts  the  trick 
upon  us  of  two  for  one.  That  (comparatively) 
white  devil  of  tobacco  brought  with  him  in 
the  end  seven  worse  than  himself. 

It  were  impertinent  to  carry  the  reader 
through  all  the  processes  by  which,  from 
smoking  at  first  Avith  malt  liquor,  I  took  my 
degrees  through  thin  wines,  through  stronger 


212        (The  ^z^t  it^^mp  ot  €\m. 


wme  and  water,  through  small  punch,  to 
those  juggling  couiposiLions,  which,  under 
the  name  of  mixed  liquors,  shir  a  great  deal 
of  brandy  or  otlier  poison  under  less  and 
less  water  continually,  until  they  come  next 
to  none,  and  so  to  none  at  all.  But  it  is  hate- 
ful to  disclose  the  secrets  of  my  Tartarus. 

I  should  repel  my  readers,  from  a  mere^ 
incapacity  of  believing  me,  were  I  to  tell 
them  what  tobacco  has  been  to  me,  th& 
drudging  service  which  I  have  paid,  the- 
slavery  which  I  have  vowed  to  it.  Plow, 
when  I  have  resolved  to  quit  it,  a  feeling  as 
of  ingratitude  has  started  up  ;  how  it  has  put 
on  personal  claims  and  made  the  demands  of 
a  friend  upon  me.  How  the  reading  of  it 
casually  in  a  book,  as  where  Adams  takes 
his  wliiif  in  the  chimney-corner  of  some  inn 
in  Joseph  .Vndrews,  or  Piscador  in  the  Com- 
plete Angler  breaks  his  fast  upon  a  inorning 
pipe  in  that  delicate  room  Plscatorihns 
jSacruiu,  has  in  a  moment  broken  down  the 
resistance  of  weeks.  How  a  pipe  was  ever 
in  my  midnight  path  before  me,  till  the 
vision  forced  me  to  realize  it, — how  then  it3 
ascending  vapors  curled,  its  fragrance  lulled, 
and  tlie  thousand  delicious  ministerings  con- 
versant about  it,  employing  every  faculty, 
extracted  the  sense  of  pain.  IIow  from 
ilkiminating  it  came  to  darken,  from  a  quick 
solace  it  turned  to  a  negative  relief,  thence 
to  a  restlessness  and  dissatisfaction,  thence 
to  a  positive  misery.    How,  even  now,  when 


©he  i:a^t  ©.s^ay,^  of  mn,         213 

the  whole  secret  stands  confessed  in  all  its 
■dreadful  truth  before  nie,  I  feel  myself 
linked  to  it  beyond  the  power  of  revocation. 
Bone  of  ray  bone 

Persons  not  accustomed  to  examine  the 
motives  of  their  actions,  to  reckon  up  the 
countless  nails  that  rivet  the  chains  of  habit, 
or  perhaps  being  bound  by  none  so  obdurate 
as  those  I  have  confessed  to,  may  recoil 
from  this  as  from  an  overcharged  picture. 
But  what  short  of  such  a  bondage  is  it, 
which,  in  spite  of  protesting  friends,  a  weep- 
ing wife,  and  a  reprobating  world,  chains 
down  many  a  poor  fellow,  of  no  original 
indisposition  to  goodness,  to  his  i)ipe  and 
his  pot? 

I  have  seen  a  print  after  Correggio,  in 
which  three  female  iigures  are  ministering 
to  a  man  who  sits  fast  bound  at  the  Toot  of 
a  tree.  Sensuality  is  soothing  him.  Evil 
Habit  is  nailing  him  to  a  branch,  and  Re- 
pugnance at  the  same  instant  of  time  is  ap- 
plying a  snake  to  his  side.  In  his  face  is 
feeble  delight,  the  recollection  of  past  rather 
than  perception  of  present  pleasures,  lan- 
guid enjoyment  of  evil  with  utter  imbecility 
to  good,  a  Sybaritic  effeminacy,  a  submis- 
sion to  bondage,  the  springs  of  the  will 
gone  down  like  a  broken  clock,  the  sin  and 
the  suffering  co-instantaneous,  or  the  latter 
forerunning  the  former,  remorse  preceding 
action — all  this  represented  in  one  point  of 
time.     "When  I  saw  this,   I   admired  the 


214         5i;hc  ITa.st  (^$^w^  of  (^Vm, 


■wonderful  skill  of  the  painter.  But  when 
I  went  away,  I  wept,  because  I  thought  of 
my  own  condition. 

Of  t/iat  there  is  no  hope  that  it  should 
ever  change.  The  waters  have  gone  over 
me.  But  out  of  the  black  depths,  could  I 
be  heard,  I  would  cry  out  to  all  those  wlio 
have  but  set  a  foot  in  the  perilous  flood. 
Could  the  youth,  to  whom  the  flavor  of  his 
first  wine  is  deUcious  as  the  opening  scenes 
of  life  or  the  entering  upon  some  newly  dis- 
covered paradise,  look  into  my  desolation, 
and  be  made  to  understand  what  a  dreary 
thing  it  is  when  a  man  shall  feel  himself 
going  down  a  precipice  with  open  eyes  and 
a  passive  will, — to  see  his  destruction  and 
have  no  power  to  stop  it,  and  yet  to  feel  it 
all  the  w^ay  emanatmg  from  himself ;  to 
perceive  all  goodness  emptied  out  of  him, 
and  yet  not  to  be  able  to  forget  a  time  when 
it  was  otherwise  ;  to  bear  about  t!ie  piteous 
spectacle  of  his  own  self-ruins ;— could  he 
see  my  fevered  eye,  feverish  with  last  night's 
drinking,  and  feverishly  looking  for  this 
night's  repetition  of  the  folly ;  could  he  feel 
the  body  of  the  death  out  of  which  I  cry 
hourly  with  feebler  and  feebler  outcry  -to 
be  delivered, — it  were  enough  to  make  him 
dash  the  sparkling  l^everage  to  the  earth  in 
all  the  pride  of  its  mantling  temptation ;  to 
make  him  clasp  his  teeth, 

"  and  not  undo  "em 
To  suffer  wet  damnation  to  run  thro'  'em." 


mt  &4  (^^^m^  oi  mi^,         215 


Yea,  but  (methinks  I  hear  somebody  ob- 
ject) if  sobriety  be  that  fine  tiling  you  would 
have  us  to  understand,  if  the  comforts  of 
a  cool  brain  are  to  be  preferred  to  that  state 
of  heated  excitement  which  you  describe 
and  deplore,  what  hinders  in  your  instance 
that  you  do  not  return  to  those  habits  from 
which  you  Avould  induce  others  never  to 
swerve  ?  if  the  blessing  be  worth  preserv- 
ing, is  it  not  worth  recovering? 

liccovertjig  ! — O,  if  a  wish  could  transport 
me  back  to  those  days  of  youth,  when  a 
draught  from  the  next  clear  spring  could 
slake  any  heats  which  summer  suns  and 
youthful  exercise  had  power  to  stir  up  in 
the  blood,  how  gladly  would  I  return  to 
thee,  pure  element,  the  drink  of  children, 
and  of  childlike  holy  hermit !  In  my  dreams 
I  can  sometimes  fancy  thy  cool  refreshment 
l)urling  over  my  burning  tongue.  But  my 
waking  stomach  rejects  it.  That  which  re- 
freshes innocence  only  makes  me  sick  and 
faint. 

But  is  there  no  middle  way  betwixt  total 
abstinence  and  the  excess  which  kills  you? 
— For  your  sake,  reader,  and  that  you  may 
never  attain  to  my  experience,  \\'\W\  pain  I 
must  utter  the  dreadful  truth,  that  there  is 
none,  none  that  I  can  find.  In  my  stage  of 
habit  (I  speak  not  of  habits  less  confirmed 
— for  some  of  them  I  believe  the  advice  to 
be  most  prudential),  in  the  stage  which  I 
have  reached,  to  stop  short  of  that  measure 


216        WU  ^ast  (^^saiis  of  ©lia. 


which  is  sufficient  to  draw  on  torpor  and 
sleep,  the  benumbing,  apoplectic  sleep  of  the 
drunkard,  is  to  have  taken  none  at  all.  The 
pain  of  the  self-denial  is  all  one.  And 
Avhat  that  is,  I  had  rather  the  reader  should 
believe  on  my  credit,  than  know  from  his 
ow]i  trial.  Tie  will  come  to  know  it,  when- 
ever he  shall  arrive  in  that  state,  in  Avhich, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  reason  shall 
0)ihj  visit  Jam  throufjh  intod'Acation  ;  for  it 
is  a  fearful  truth,  that  the  intellectual 
faculties  by  repeated  acts  of  intemperance 
may  be  driven  from  their  orderly  sphere  of 
action,  their  clear  daylight  ministries,  until 
they  shall  be  brought  at  last  to  depend,  for 
the  faint  manifestation  of  their  departing 
energies,  upon  the  returning  periods  of  the 
fatal  madness  to  which  they  ovre  their 
devastation.  The  drinking  man  is  never 
less  himself  than  during  his  sober  intervals. 
Evil  is  so  far  his  good.* 

Behold  me,  then,  in  the  robust  period  of 
life,  reduced  to  imbecility  and  decay.  Hear 
me  count  my  gains,  and  the  profits  which  I 
have  derived  from  the  midnight  cup. 

Twelve  years  ago,  I  was  possessed  of  a 

*  Wlien  poor  M painted  his  last  picture,  with 

a  pencil  in  one  trembling  hand,  and  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water  in  the  other,  his  fingers  owed  the  compara- 
tive steadiness  with  which  tliey  were  enabled  to  go 
through  their  task  in  an  imperfect  manner,  to  a  tem- 
porary firmness  derived  from  a  repetition  of  practices, 
the  general  effect  of  which  had  shaken  both  them, 
.and  him  so  terribly. 


©fee  f  a,$t  (^^m^^  of  mm,        21 7 


Wealthy  frame  of  mind  and  body.  I  was 
never  strong,  bnt  I  think  my  constitution 
(for  a  wealc  one)  was  as  happily  exempt 
from  tlie  tendency  to  any  malady  as  it  was 
possible  to  be.  I  scarce  knew  what  it  was 
to  ail  anything".  Now,  except  \vhen  I  am 
losing  myself  in  a  sea  of  drink,  I  am  never 
free  from  those  uneasy  sensations  in  head 
and  stomach,  which  are  so  much  worse  to 
bear  than  any  definite  pains  or  aches. 

At  that  time  I  Avas  seldom  in  bed  after  six 
in  the  morning,  summer  and  winter.  I 
awoke  refreshed,  and  seldom  without  some 
merry  thoughts  in  my  head,  or  some  piece 
of  a  song  to  M'elcome  the  new-born  day. 
Now,  the  first  feeling  which  besets  me,  after 
stretching  out  the  hours  of  recumbence  to 
their  last  possible  extent,  is  a  forecast  of 
the  wearisome  day  that  lies  before  me,  with 
a  secret  wish  that  I  could  have  lain  on  still, 
or  never  awaked. 

Life  itself,  my  waking  life,  has  much  of 
the  confusion,  the  trouble,  and  obscure 
perplexity  of  an  ill  dream.  In  the  daytime 
I  stumble  upon  dark  mountains. 

Business,  which,  though  never  very  par- 
ticularly adapted  to  my  nature,  yet  as  some- 
thing of  necessity  to  be  gone  through,  and 
therefore  best  undertaken  with  cheerfulness, 
I  used  to  enter  upon  with  some  degree  of 
alacrity,  now  wearies,  affrights,  perplexes 
me.  I  fancy  all  sorts  of  discouragements, 
and  am   ready  to  give  uj)  an  occupation 


218  m\t  p!5t  ($:.$'.$ay.$'  of  (glia. 

which  g-ives  me  bread,  from  a  harassing 
conceit  of  incapacity.  The  shghtest  com- 
mission given  me  by  a  friend,  or  any  small 
duty  whicli  I  have  to  perform  for  myself,  as 
giving-  orders  to  a  tradesman,  etc.,  haunts 
me  as  a  labor  impossible  to  be  got  through. 
So  much  the  springs  of  action  are  broken. 

The  same  co\vard.ice  attends  me  in  all  my 
intercourse  with  mankind.  I  dare  not  prom- 
ise that  a  f]'iend's  honor,  or  his  cause,  would 
be  safe  in  my  keeping,  if  I  were  put  to  the 
expense  of  any  manly  resolution  in  defend- 
ing it.  So  much  the  springs  of  moral  action 
are  deadened  within  me. 

My  favorite  occupations  in  times  past  now 
cease  to  entertain.  I  can  do  nothing  readil5\ 
Application  for  ever  so  short  a  time  kills 
me.  This  poor  abstract  of  my  condition 
was  penned  at  long  intervals,  with  scarcely 
any  attem])t  at  connection  of  thought,  whicli 
is  now  difficult  to  me. 

The  noble  passages  which  formerly  de- 
lighted me  in  history  or  poetic  fiction,  now 
only  draw  a  few  weak  tears,  allied  to  dotage. 
My  broken  and  dispirited  nature  seems  to 
sink  before  anything  great  and  admirable. 

I  perpetually  catch  myself  in  tears,  for 
any  cause,  or  none.  It  is  inexpressible  how 
much  this  infirmitj'-  adds  to  a  sense  of  shame» 
and  a  general  feeling  of  deterioration. 

These  are  some  of  the  instances,  concern- 
ing which  I  can  say  with  truth,  that  it  was 
not  always  so  with  me. 


®ltc  fa^t  (g$'^ay.$  oi  mm,        219 

Shall  I  lift  up  the  veil  of  my  weakness 
any  farther  ?  or  is  this  disclosure  sufficient? 

I  am  a  poor  nameless  egotist,  who  have  no 
vanity  to  consult  by  these  Confessions.  I 
know  not  whether  I  shall  be  laughed  at,  or 
heard  seriously.  Such  as  they  are,  I  com- 
mend them  to  the  reader's  attention,  if  he 
find  his  own  case  any  way  touched.  I  have 
told  hiai  what  I  aul  come  to.  Let  him  stoj) 
in  time. 


220        mt  fajst  €^m^  ^<  ®»a. 


Popular  Fallacies. 


THAT  A  BULLY  IS  ALWAYS  A  COWARD. 

This  axiom  contains  a  jorinciple  of  com- 
pensation, wliicli  disposes  us  to  admit  tlie 
trutli  of  it.  But  there  is  no  safe  trusting  to 
dictionaries  and  definitions.  We  sliould 
more  willingly  fall  in  with  this  popular 
language,  if  we  did  not  find  h-utallti/  some- 
times awkwardly  coupled  with  valor  in  the 
same  vocabulary.  The  comic  AA^riters,  with 
their  poetical  justice,  have  contributed  not  a 
little  to  mislead  us  upon  this  point.  To  see 
a  hectoring  fellow  exposed  and  beaten  upon 
the  stage,  has  something  in  it  wonderfully 
diverting.  Some  people's  share  of  animal 
spirits  is  notoriously  low  and  defective.  It 
has  not  strength  to  raise  a  vapor,  or  furnish 
out  the  wind  of  a  tolerable  bluster.  These 
love  to  be  told  that  huffing  is  no  part  of 
valor.  The  truest  courage  with  them  is  that 
which  is  the  least  noisy  and  obtrusive.  But 
confront  one  of  these  silent  heroes  with  the 
swaggerer  of  real  life,  and  his  confidence  in 


JTltc  p.st  (g.^.says  of  ©Ua.         221 


the  theory  quickly  vanishes.  Pretensions 
do  not  uniformly  bespeak  non-performance. 
A  modest,  inoffensive  deportment  does  not 
necessarily  imply  valor;  neither  does  the 
absence  of  it  justify  us  in  denying  that 
qualit3\  Hickman  wanted  modesty, — we  do 
not  mean  him  of  Clarissa, — but  who  ever 
doubted  his  courage?  Even  the  poets — 
upon  Avhoni  this  equitable  distribution  of 
qualities  should  be  most  binding — have 
thought  it  agreeable  to  nature  to  depart 
from  the  rule  upon  occasion.  ITarapha,  in 
the  "  Agonistes,"  is  indeed  a  bully  upon  the 
received  notions.  ]\Iilton  has  made  him  at 
once  a  blusterer,  a  giant,  and  a  dastard. 
But  Almanzor,  in  Dryden,  talks  of  driving 
armies  singly  before  him — and  does  it.  Tom 
Brown  had  a  shrewder  insight  into  this  kind 
of  character  than  either  of  his  j^redecessors. 
He  divides  the  palm  more  equably,  and  al- 
lows his  hero  a  sort  of  dimidiate  pre-emin- 
ence:— "Bully  Dawson  kicked  by  half  the 
toAvn,  and  half  the  town  kicked  by  Bully 
Dawson."  This  was  true  distributive  jus- 
tice. 

II. 

THAT  ILL-GO'5'TEN  GAIN  NEVER  PROSPERS. 

The  weakest  part  of  mankind  have  this 
saying  commonest  in  their  mouth.  It  is  the 
trite  consolation  administered  to  the  easy 


©he  l^a.'Sit  (^^^ixxp  of  (glia. 


dupe,  when  he  has  been  tricked,  out  of  his 
money  or  estate,  that  the  acquisition  of  it 
will  do  the  owner  no  good.  But  the  rogues 
of  this  world — the  prudenter  part  of  them, 
at  least — know  better ;  and  if  the  observa- 
tion had  been  as  true  as  it  is  old,  would  not 
have  failed  by  this  time  to  have  discovered  it. 
They  have  pretty  sharp  distinctions  of  the 
fluctuating  and  the  permanent.  "  Lightly 
come,  lightly  go,"  is  a  proverb,  which  they 
can  very  well  afford  to  leave,  when  they 
leave  little  else,  to  the  losers.  They  do  not 
alwaj's  find  manors,  got  by  rapine  or  chican- 
ery, insensibly  to  melt  away,  as  the  poets 
will  have  it;  or  that  all  gold  glides,  like 
thawing  snow,  from  the  thief's  hand  that 
grasps  it.  Church  land,  alienated  to  lay 
uses,  was  formerly  denounced  to  have  this 
slippery  quality.  But  some  portions  of  it 
somehow  always  stuck  so  fast,  that  the 
denunciators  have  l)een  fnin  to  postpone  the 
prophecy  of  refundment  to  a  late  posterity. 


in. 


THAT    A    MAX    MUST    NOT   LAUGH    AT    HIS    OWN 
JEST. 

The  severest  exaction  surely  ever  invented 
upon  the  self-denial  of  poor  human  nature ! 
This  is  to  expect  a  gentleman  to  give  a  treat 


©Ite  i^a.st  (g,^'.&ai;,^  0f  (JSIia.         223 

without  jDartaking  of  it ;  to  sit  esurient  at 
his  own  table,  and  commend  the  flavor  of 
his  venison  upon  the  absurd  strengtii  of  his 
never  toucliing  it  himself.  On  the  contrar}^, 
we  love  to  see  a  wag  taste  his  own  joke  to 
his  party  ;  to  watch  a  quirk  or  a  merry  con- 
ceit flickering  upon  the  lips  some  seconds 
before  the  tongue  is  delivered  of  it.  If  it  he 
good,  fresh,  and  racy — begotten  of  the  occa- 
sion ;  if  he  that  utters  it  never  thought  it 
before,  he  is  naturally  the  first  to  be  tickled 
with  it ;  and  any  suppression  of  such  com- 
placence w^e  hold  to  be  churlish  and  insult- 
ing. What  does  it  seem  to  imply,  but  that 
your  company  is  weak  or  foolish  enough  to 
be  moved  by  an  image  or  a  fancy,  that  shall 
stir  you  not  at  all,  or  but  faintly  ?  This  is 
exactly  the  humor  of  tlie  fine  gentleman  in 
Mandeville,  who  wdiile  he  dazzles  his  guests 
with  the  display  of  some  costly  toy,  affects 
himself  to  "■  see  nothing  considerable  in  it." 


IV. 


THAT    SUCH    A    0:N"E     SHOWS    HIS    BREEDING. 

THAT    IT    IS    EASY    TO    PEKCEIVE    HE    IS    NO 
GENTLEMAN. 

A  SPEECH  from  the  poorest  sort  of  people, 
which  always  indicates  that  the  party  vitu- 
perated is  a  gentleman.    The  very  fact  which 


224         ir:hc  ^a.^t  ^,$',oa\|,^  of  (glia. 


they  deny  is  that  which  galls  and  exasperates 
them  to  use  this  langua,):je.  The  forbearance 
with  Avhich  it  is  usually  received  is  a  proof 
what  interpretation  the  bystander  sets  upon 
it.  Of  a  kin  to  this,  and  still  less  politic^ 
are  the  phrases  Avitli  which,  in  tlieir  street 
rhetoric,  they  ply  one  another  more  grossly : 
— He  is  a  poor  creature. — lie  has  not  a  ray 
to  cover ,  etc. ;  though  this  last,  we  con- 
fess, is  more  frequently  applied  by  females 
to  females.  They  do  not  perceive  that  the 
satire  glances  upon  themselves.  A  poor 
man,  of  all  things  in  the~  world,  should  not 
upbraid  an  antagonist  with  poverty.  Are 
there  no  other  topics — as,  to  tell  him  his 

father  was   hanged, — his    sister,    etc. , 

without  exposing  a  secret,  which  should  be 
kept  snug  between  them ;  and  doing  an 
affi'ont  to  the  order  to  Avhich  they  have  the 
honor  equally  to  belong"?  All  this  while 
they  do  not  see  how  the  wealthier  man 
stands  by  and  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  both. 


V. 
THAT  THE  POOR  COPY  THE  VICES  OF  THE  ETCH. 

A  SMOOTH  text  to  the  letter ;  and,  preached 
from  the  pulpit,  is  sure  of  a  docile  audience 
from  the  pews  lined  with  satin.  It  is  twice 
sitting  upon  velvet  to  a  foolish  squire  to  be- 


^\xt  ^ai&t  (i^mp  of  (gUa.         225 


told,  that  he — and  not  2')ervierse  nature^  as 
the  homilies  would  make  us  imagine,  is  the- 
true  cause  of  all  the  irregularities  in  his 
parish.  This  is  striking  at  the  root  of  free- 
will indeed,  and  denying  the  originality  of 
sin  in  any  sense. 

But  men  are  not  such  implicit  sheep  as 
this  comes  to.  If  the  abstinence  from  evil 
on  the  part  of  the  upper  classes  is  to  derive 
itself  from  no  higher  principle  than  the  ap- 
prehension of  setting  ill  patterns  to  the  lower, 
we  beg  leave  to  discharge  them  from  all 
squeamishness  on  that  score  ;  they  may  even 
take  their  fill  of  pleasures  where  they  caa 
find  them.  The  Genius  of  Poverty,  ham- 
pered and  straitened  as  it  is,  is  not  so  bar- 
ren of  invention,  but  it  can  trade  upon  the 
staple  of  its  own  vice,  without  drawing  upon 
their  capital.  The  poor  are  not  quite  such 
servile  imitators  as  they  take  them  for. 
Some  of  them  are  very  clever  artists  in  their- 
way.  Here  and  there  we  find  an  original.. 
Who  taught  the  poor  to  steal,  to  pilfer  ? 
They  did  not  go  to  the  great  for  school- 
masters in  these  faculties  surely.  It  is  well 
if  in  some  vices  they  allow  us  to  be — no  copy- 
ists. In  no  other  sense  is  it  true  that  the 
poor  copy  them,  than  as  servants  may  be 
said  to  Ud^e  after  their  masters  and  mis- 
tresses, when  they  succeed  to  their  rever- 
sionary cold  meats.  If  the  master,  from 
indisposition  or  some  other  cause,  neglect 
Ms  food,  the  servant  dines  notwithstanding^ 
15 


22G  (Hihf  f  a^'t  (^0$n\p  of  (^lia. 


"  O,  but  (some  will  say)  the  force  of  ex- 
ample is  great."  We  knew  a  lady  who  was 
so  scrupulous  on  this  head,  that  she  would 
put  up  with  the  calls  of  the  most  imperti- 
nent visitor,  rather  than  let  her  servant  say 
she  was  not  at  home,  for  fear  of  teachin*^ 
her  maid  to  tell  an  untruth ;  and  this  in  the 
very  face  of  the  fact,  which  she  knew  well 
enough,  that  the  wench  was  one  of  the 
greatest  liars  upon  the  earth  without  teach- 
ing ;  so  much  so,  that  her  mistress  possibly 
never  heard  two  words  of  consecutive  trutJi 
from  her  in  her  life.  But  nature  must  go 
for  nothing :  example  must  be  everything. 
This  liar  in  grain,  who  never  opened  her 
mouth  without  a  lie,  must  be  guarded 
against  a  remote  inference,  which  she 
(pretty  casuist !)  might  possibly  draw  from 
a  form  of  words — literally  false,  but  essen- 
tially deceiving  no  one — that  under  some 
circumstances  a  fib  might  not  be  so  exceed- 
ingly sinful — a  fiction,  too,  not  at  all  in  her 
own  way,  or  one  that  she  could  be  suspected 
of  adopting,  for  few  servant- wenches  care 
to  be  denied  to  visitors. 

This  word  examjyle  reminds  us  of  another 
fine  Avord  which  is  in  use  upon  these  oc- 
casions— encouragement.  "People  in  our 
sphere  must  not  be  thought  to  give  encour- 
agement to  such  proceedings."  To  such  a 
frantic  height  is  this  principle  capable  of 
being  carried,  that  we  have  known  individ- 
uals who  have  thought  it  within  the  scope 


®hc  i:a!St  (!::^5aM,$  of  mm,         227 


of  their  influence  to  sanction  despair,  and 
give  eclat  to — suicide.  A  domestic  in  the 
family  of  a  county  member  lately  deceased, 
from  love,  or  some  unknown  cause,  cut  his 
throat,  but  not  successfully.  The  poor 
fellow  was  otherwise  much  loved  and  re- 
spected ;  and  great  interest  was  used  in  his 
behalf,  upon  his  recovery,  that  he  might 
be  permitted  to  retain  his  place ;  his  w^ord 
being  first  pledged,  not  without  some  sub- 
stantial sjionsors  to  promise  for  him,  that 
the  like  sliould  never  happen  again.  His 
master  was  inclinable  to  keep  him,  but  his 
mistress  thought  otherwise ;  and  Jolui  in 
the  end  was  dismissed,  her  ladyship  declar- 
ing that  she  "  could  not  think  of  encourag- 
ing any  such  doings  in  the  county." 


VI. 
THAT  EXOUGH  IS  AS  GOOD  AS  A  FEAST. 

KoT  a  man,  woman,  or  child,  in  ten  miles 
round  Guildhall,  who  really  believes  this 
saying.  The  inventor  of  it  did  not  believe 
it  himself.  It  was  made  in  revenge  by  some- 
body, who  was  disappointed  of  a  regale.  It 
is  a  vile  cold-scrag-of-mutton  sophism;  a  lie 
palmed  upon  the  palate,  which  knows  better 
things.  If  nothing  else  could  be. said  for  a 
feast,  this  is  sufficient,  that  from  the  super- 


228       ^]xt  i:a.$t  (&m\p  of  mix. 

flux  there  is  usually  something  left  for  the 
next  day.  Morally  interpreted,  it  belongs  to 
a  class  of  proverbs  which  have  a  tendency 
to  make  us  undervalue  monei/.  Of  this  cast 
are  those  notable  observations,  that  money 
is  not  health :  riches  cannot  purchase  every- 
thing :  the  metaphor  which  makes  gold  to  be 
mere  muck,  with  the  morality  which  traces 
fine  clothing  to  the  sheep's  back,  and  de- 
nounces pearl  as  the  unhandsome  excretion 
of  an  oyster.  Ilence,  too,  the  phrase  which 
imputes  dirt  to  acres — a  sophistry  so  bare- 
faced, that  even  the  literal  sense  of  it  is  true 
only  in  a  wet  season.  This,  and  abundance 
of  similar  sage  saws  assuming  to  inculcate 
content,  we  verily  believe  to  have  been  the 
invention  of  some  cunning  borrower,  who 
had  designs  upon  the  purse  of  his  wealthier 
neighbor,  which  he  could  only  hope  to  carry 
by  force  of  these  verbal  jugglings.  Trans- 
late any  one  of  these  sayings  out  of  the  art- 
ful metonymy  which  envelops  it,  and  the 
trick  is  apparent.  Goodly  legs  and  shoul- 
ders of  mutton,  exhilarating  cordials,  books, 
pictures,  the  opportunities  of  seeing  foreign 
countries,  independence,  hearfs  ease,  a 
man's  own  time  to  himself,  are  not  inuck — ■ 
however  we  may  be  pleased  to  scandalize 
with  that  appellation  the  fateful  metal  that 
provides  them  for  us. 


®b«  fa^t  i^&m^  of  (BlVA,        229 


VII. 


OF    TWO    DISPUTANTS    THE    WARMEST    IS    GEN- 
ERALLY IN  THE  WRONG. 

OcR  experience  would  lead  us  to  quite  an 
opposite  conclusion.  Temper,  indeed,  is  no 
test  of  truth  ;  but  warmth  and  earnestness 
are  a  proof  at  least  of  a  man's  own  con- 
viction of  the  rectitude  of  that  which  he 
niaintahis.  Coolness  is  as  often  the  result 
of  an  unprincipled  indifference  to  truth  or 
falsehood,  as  of  a  sober  confidence  in  a 
man's  own  side  in  a  dispute.  Nothing-  is 
more  insulting  sometimes  than  the  appear- 
ance of  this  philosophic  temper.  There  is 
little  Titubus,  the  stammering- law-stationer 
in  Lincoln's  Inn, — \ve  have  seldom  known 
this  shrewd  little  fellow  engaged  in  an  argu- 
ment where  we  were  not  convinced  he  had 
the  best  of  it,  if  his  tongue  would  but  fairly 
have  seconded  him.  When  he  has  been 
spluttering  excellent  broken  sense  for  an 
hour  together,  writliing-  and  laboring  to  be 
delivered  of  the  point  of  dispute, — the  very 
gist  of  the  controversy  knocking  at  his 
teeth,  which  like  some  obstinate  iron-grat- 
ing still  obstructed  its  deliverance, — his 
puny  frame  convulsed,  and  face  reddening 
aU  over  at  an  unfairness  in  the  logic  which 


230         (The  a:a,&t  i^^^np  of  (gUa, 

he  wanted  articulation  to  expose,  it  has 
moved  our  gall  to  see  a  smooth,  portly  fellow 
of  an  adversary,  that  cared  not  a  button  for 
the  merits  of  the  question,  by  merely  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  head  of  the  stationer,  and 
desiring  him  to  be  calm  (your  tall  dispu- 
tants have  always  the  advantage),  with  a 
provoking  sneer  carry  the  argument  clean 
from  him  in  the  opinion  of  all  the  by- 
standers, who  have  gone  away  clearly  con- 
vinced that  Titubus  must  have  been  in  the 
wrong,  because  he  was  in  a  passion ;  and 

that  ]Mr. ,  meaning  his  ojiponent,  is  one 

of  the  fairest  and  at  tlie  same  time  one  of 
the  most  dispassionate  arguers  breathing. 


vin. 

THAT    VERBAL    ALLUSIONS    ARE    :N"0T    WIT,    BE- 
CAUSE THEY  WILL  XOT  BEAR  A  TRANSLATION. 

The  same  might  be  said  of  the  wittiest 
local  allusions.  A  custom  is  sometimes  as 
difficult  to  explain  to  a  foreigner  as  a  pun. 
What  Avould  become  of  a  great  part  of  the 
wit  of  the  last  age  if  it  were  tried  by  this 
test?  How  would  certain  topics,  as  alder- 
manity,  cuckoldry,  have  sounded  to  a  Ter- 
entian  auditory,  though  Terence  himself 
had  been  alive  to  translate  them  ?  /Senator 
urhanus  with  Curnica  to  boot  for  a  syno- 
nym, would  but  faintly  have  done  the  busi- 


mc  f  a.$'t  (^^m^  ot  (gUa.         231 

ness.  "Words,  involving  notions,  are  hard 
enough  to  render ;  it  is  too  much  to  expect 
us  to  translate  a  sound,  and  give  an  elegant 
version  to  a  jingle.  The  Yirgilian  harmony 
is  not  translatable,  but  by  substituting  har- 
monious sounds  in  another  language  for  it. 
To  Latinize  a  pun,  we  must  seek  a  pun  in 
Latin  that  will  answer  to  it ;  as,  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  double  endings  in  Hudibras,  we 
must  have  recourse  to  a  similar  practice 
in  the  old  monkish  doggerel.  Dennis,  the 
fiercest  oppugner  of  puns  in  ancient  or  mod- 
ern times,  professes  himself  highly  tickled 
with  the  "  a  stick,"  chiming  to  "  ecclesias- 
tic." Yet  what  is  this  but  a  species  of  pun» 
a  verbal  consonance? 


IX. 

THAT    THE    WORST    PUXS    AEE    THE    BEST. 

If  by  Avorst  be  only  meant  the  most  far- 
fetched and  startling,  we  agree  to  it.  A  pun 
is  not  bound  by  the  laws  which  limit  nicer 
wit.  It  is  a  pistol  let  off  at  the  ear;  not  a 
feather  to  tickle  the  intellect.  It  is  an  antic 
which  does  not  stand  upon  manners,  but 
comes  bounding  into  the  presence,  and  does 
not  show  the  less  comic  for  being  dragged 
in  sometimes  by  the  head  and  shoulders. 
What  though  it  limp  a  littl(\  or  prove  de- 
fective in  one  leg? — all  the  better.    A  pun 


232        mu  faist  (^^mp  of  mim, 

may  easily  be  too  curious  and  artificial. 
Who  has  not  at  one  time  or  other  been  at  a 
party  of  professors  (liimself  perhaps  an  old 
offender  in  that  line),  where  after  ringing  a 
round  of  the  most  ingenious  conceits,  every 
man  contributing  his  shot,  and  some  there 
the  most  expert  shooters  of  the  day ;  after 
making  a  poor  toord  run  the  gauntlet  till  it 
is  ready  to  drop ;  after  hunting  and  winding 
it  through  all  the  possible  ambages  of  sim- 
ilar sounds,  after  squeezing,  and  hauling, 
and  tugging  at  it  till  the  very  milk  of  it 
will  not  yield  a  drop  further, — suddenly 
some  obscure,  unthougiit-of  fellow  in  a  cor- 
jier  who  was  never  'prentice  to  the  trade, 
whom  the  company  for  very  pity  x^assed 
over,  as  we  do  by  a  known  poor  man  when 
a  money-subscription  is  going  round,  no 
one  calling  upon  him  for  his  quota, — has  all 
at  once  come  out  with  something  so  wdiim- 
sical,  yet  so  pertinent;  so  brazen  in  its  pre- 
tensions, yet  so  impossible  to  be  denied ;  so 
-exquisitely  good,  and  so  deplorably  bad,  at 
the  same  time, — that  it  has  proved  a  Robin 
Hood's  shot;  anything  ulterior  to  that  is 
despaired  of;  and  the  party  breaks  up, 
unanimously  voting  it  to  be  the  very  w^orst 
(that  is,  best)  pun  of  the  evening.  This 
species  of  wit  is  the  better  for  not  being 
perfect  in  all  its  parts.  What  it  gains  in 
completeness,  it  loses  in  naturalness.  The 
more  exactly  it  satisfies  the  critical,  the  less 
liold  it  has  upon  some  other  faculties.    The 


©he  piSt  (B^^^A^p  ot  mm.        233 


puns  which  are  most  entertamiiig  are  those 
which  will  least  bear  an  analysis.  Of  this 
kind  is  the  following,  recorded  with  a  sort 
of  stigma,  in  one  of  Swift's  Miscellanies. 

An  Oxford  scholar,  meeting  a  porter  who 
was  carrying  a  hare  throngh  the  streets,  ac- 
costs him  with  this  extraordinary  question  : 
"  Prithee,  friend,  is  that  thy  own  hare,  or  a 
wig ! " 

There  is  no  excusing  this,  and  no  resist- 
ing it.  A  man  might  blur  ten  sides  of  paper 
in  attempting  a  defense  of  it  against  a  critic 
who  should  be-  laughter-proof.  The  quib- 
ble in  itself  is  not  considersble.  It  is  only 
a  new  turn  given  by  a  little  false  jjronun- 
ciation  to  a  very  common,  though  not  very 
courteous  inquiry.  Put  by  one  gentleman 
to  another  at  a  dinner-party,  it  would  have 
been  vapid ;  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  it 
would  have  shown  much  less  wit  than  rude- 
ness. We  must  take  in  the  totality  of  time, 
place,  and  person ;  the  pert  look  of  the  in- 
quiring scholar,  the  desponding  looks  of  the 
puzzled  porter ;  the  one  stopping  at  leisure, 
the  other  hurrying  on  with  his  burden  ;  the 
innocent  though  rather  abrupt  tendency  of 
the  first  memijer  of  the  question,  with  the 
ntter  and  inextricable  irrelevancy  of  the 
second ;  the  place — a  public  street  not  favor- 
able to  frivolous  investigations  ;  the  atfront- 
ive  quality  of  the  primitive  inquiry  (the 
common  question)  invidiously  transferred 
to  the  derivative  (the  new  turn  given  to  it) 


234  ZU  p,st  (^^mp  Of  mn. 


in  the  implied  satire ;  namely,  that  few  of 
that  tribe  are  expected  to  eat  of  the  good 
things  which  they  carry,  they  being  in  most 
countries  considered  rather  as  the  tempo- 
rary trustees  than  owners  of  such  dainties, 
— which  the  fellow  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand ;  but  then  the  ^c/// again  comes  in,  and 
he  can  make  noLhing  of  it ;  all  put  together 
constitute  a  picture :  Hogarth  could  have 
made  it  intelligible  on  canvas. 

Yet  nine  out  of  ten  critics  will  pronounce 
this  a  very  bad  pun,  because  of  the  defect- 
iveness in  the  concluding  member,  whicli 
is  its  very  beauty,  and  constitutes  the  sur- 
prise. The  same  i)erson  shall  cry  up  for 
admirable  the  cold  quibble  from  Yirgil  about 
the  broken  Cremona ;  *  because  it  is  made 
out  in  all  its  parts,  and  leaves  nothing  to 
the  imagination.  We  venture  to  call  it 
cold ;  because,  of  thousands  Avho  have  ad- 
mired it,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  one 
who  has  heartily  chuckled  at  it.  As  ap- 
pealing to  the  judgment  merely  (setting 
the  risible  faculty  aside),  we  must  pronounce 
it  a  monument  of  curious  felicity.  But  as 
some  stories  are  said  to  be  too  good  to  be 
true,  it  may  with  equal  truth  be  asserted  of 
this  biverbal  allusion,  that  it  is  too  good  to 
be  ■  natural.  One  cannot  help  suspecting 
that  the  incident  was  invented  to  fit  the  line. 
It  would  have  been  better  had  it  been  less 

*  Swift. 


©he  !£a.sit  (<?,^,^aM,ci  of  mu.        235 


perfect.  Like  some  Yirgiliaii  liemistichs,  it 
has  suffered  by  filling  up.  The  nimium 
Vicina  was  enough  in  conscience  ;  the  Cre- 
monce  afterwards  loads  it.  It  is  in  fact  a 
double  pun ;  and  we  have  always  observed 
that  a  superfostation  in  this  sort  of  wit  is 
dangerous.  When  a  man  has  said  a  good 
thing,  it  is  seldom  politic  to  follow  it  up. 
AVe  do  not  care  to  be  cheated  a  second 
time ;  or,  perhaps,  the  mind  of  man  (with 
reverence  be  it  spoken)  is  not  capacious 
enough  to  lodge  two  puns  at  a  time.  The 
impression,  to  be  forcible,  must  be  simul- 
taneous and  undivided. 


THAT  HANDSOME  IS  THAT  HAXDSOME  DOES. 

Those  who  use  this  proverb  can  never 
have  seen  Mrs.  C'onrady. 

The  soul,  if  we  may  believe  Plotinus,  is  a 
ray  from  the  celestial  beauty.  As  she  par- 
takes more  or  less  of  this  heavenly  light,, 
she  informs,  with  corresponding  characters, 
the  fleshly  tenement  which  she  chooses, 
and  frames  to  herself  a  suitable  mansion. 

All  which  only  proves  that  the  soul  of 
Mrs.  Conrady,  in  her  pre-existent  state,  was 
no  great  judge  of  architecture. 

To  the  same  effect,  in  a  Hymn  in  honor 
of  Beauty,  divine  kjpenser  platonizirigy 
sings : — 


286        E;hf  ^aisit  (^^siaMJS  of  mm. 


" Every  spirit  as  it  is  more  pure, 

And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 
So  it  tlie  fairer  body  dotli  procure 
To  liabit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight 
"Witli  clieerful  grace  and  amiable  sight. 
For  of  tlie  sonl  tlie  body  form  doth  take  : 
For  soul  is  form  and  dotli  the  body  make." 

But  Spenser,  it  is  clear,  never  saw  Mrs. 
Conrady. 

These  poets,  we  find,  are  no  safe  guides 
in  pliilosopliy ;  for  here,  in  his  very  next 
stanza  but  one,  is  a  saving  clause,  which 
throws  us  all  out  again,  and  leaves  us  as 
much  to  seek  as  ever  :— 

"  Yet  oft  falls,  that  many  a  gentle  mind 
Dwells  in  deformed  tabernacle  drown'd, 
Either  by  chance,  against  the  course  of  kind, 
Or  throvigh  unaptness  in  the  substance  found, 
"SYliich  it  assumed  of  some  stubborn  ground, 
That  -will  not  yield  unto  her  form's  direction, 
But  is  performed  witli  some  foul  imperfection.  " 

Prom  which  it  would  follow,  that  Spenser 
had  seen  somebody  like  jNlrs.  Conrady. 

The  spirit  of  this  good  lady — her  previous 
cmhna — must  have  stumbled  upon  one  of 
these  untoward  tabernacles  Avhich  he  speaks 
of.  A  more  rebellious  commodity  of  clay 
for  a  groimd,  as  the  i:)oet  calls  it,  no  gentle 
mind — and  sure  hers  is  one  of  the  gentlest 
— ever  had  to  deal  with. 

Pondering  upon  her  inexplicable  visage, 
— inexplicable,  we  mean,  but  by  this  modifi- 
cation of  the  theory — we  have  come  to  a  con- 


®hc  mm  (^4m\^  of  m\^,       237 


elusion  that,  if  one  must  be  plain,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  be  plain  all  over,  than,  amidst  a  toler- 
able residue  of  features,  to  hang-  out  one  that 
shall  be  exceptionable.  No  one  can  say  of 
Mrs.  Conrady's  countenance  that  it  would 
be  better  if  she  had  but  a  nose.  It  is  im- 
possible to  pull  her  to  pieces  in  this  man- 
ner. We  have  seen  the  most  malicious 
beauties  of  her  own  sex  baffled  in  the  at- 
tempt at  a  selection.  The  tout-ensemble  de- 
fies i)articularizing.  It  is  too  complete — too 
consistent,  as  we  may  say, — to  admit  of  these 
invidious  reservations.  It  is  not  as  if  some 
Apelles  had  picked  out  here  a  lip — and  there 
a  chin — out  of  the  collected  ugliness  of 
Greece,  to  frame  a  model  by.  It  is  a  sym- 
metrical whole.  We  challenge  the  minutest 
connoisseur  to  cavil  at  any  part  or  parcel  of 
the  countenance  in  question  ;  to  say  that 
this,  or  that,  is  improperly  placed.  AVe  are 
convinced  that  true  ugliness,  no  less  than  is 
affirmed  of  true  beauty,  is  the  result  of  har- 
mony. Like  that  too  it  reigns  ^^■ithout  a 
competitor.  No  one  ever  saw  Mrs.  Con- 
rady,  without  pronouncing  her  to  be  the 
plainest  Avoman  that  he  ever  met  with  in 
the  course  of  his  life.  The  first  time  that 
you  are  indulged  with  a  sight  of  her  face  is 
an  era  in  your  existence  ever  after.  You 
are  glad  to  have  seen  it — like  Stonehenge. 
No  one  can  pretend  to  forget  it.  No  one 
ever  apologized  to  her  for  meeting  her  in 
the  street  on  such  a  day  and  not  knowing 


238        ©lie  f  a^t  (^^m^  0i  mm. 


her ;  the  jiretext  would  be  too  bare.  Nobody 
can  mistake  her  for  another.  Nobody  can 
say  of  lier,  "  I  think  I  have  seen  that  face 
somcAvhere,  but  I  cannot  call  to  mind  where." 
You  must  remember  that  in  such  a  parlor 
it  first  struck  you — like  a  bust.  You  won- 
dered where  the  owner  of  the  house  had 
picked  it  up.  You  wondered  more  when  it 
began  to  move  its  lips — so  mildly  too  !  No 
one  ever  thought  of  asking  lier  to  sit  for  her 
picture.  Lockets  are  for  remembrance ; 
and  it  would  be  clearly  superfluous  to  hang 
an  image  at  your  heart,  which,  once  seen, 
can  never  be  out  of  it.  It  is  not  a  mean 
face  either ;  its  entire  originality  precludes 
that.  Neither  is  it  of  that  order  of  plain 
faces  wliich  improve  upon  acquaintance. 
Some  very  good  but  ordinary  peoi)le,  by  an 
unwearied  })reseverance  in  good  offices,  put 
a  cheat  np(m  our  eye  ;  juggle  our  senses  out 
of  their  natural  impressions  ;  and  set  us 
upon  discovering  good  indications  in  a  coun- 
tenance, which  at  first  sight  promised  noth- 
ing less.  AVe  detect  gentleness,  w"hich  had 
escaped  us,  lurking  about  an  under-lip. 
But  when  Mrs.  Conrady  has  done  you  a  serv- 
ice, her  face  remains  the  same ;  when  she 
has  done  you  a  thousand,  and  you  know 
that  she  is  ready  to  double  the  number,  still 
it  is  that  individual  face.  Neither  can  you 
say  of  it,  that  it  would  be  a  good  face  if  it 
were  not  marked  by  the  small-pox, — a  com- 
pliment AA'hich  is  always  more  admissive 


5:hc  f  aist  (Bsi^ayjs  of  mn,        239 


than  excusatory — for  either  Mrs.  Conrady 
never  had  the  sniall-pox,  or,  as  we  say,  took 
it  kindly.  No,  it  stands  upon  its  own  mer- 
its fairly.  There  it  is.  It  is  her  mark,  her 
token ;  that  which  she  is  known  by. 


XI. 


THAT  WE    MUST  XOT    LOOK    A    GIFT    HOUSE    IX 
THE  MOUTH. 

Nor  a  lady's  age  in  the  parish  register. 
We  hoi^e  we  have  more  delicacy  than  to  do 
either ;  but  some  faces  spare  us  the  trouble 
of  these  detital  inquiries.  And  what  if  the 
beast,  which  my  friend  would  force  uix)n 
my  acceptance,  prove,  upon  the  face  oi  it,  a 
sorry  Rosinante,  a  lean,  ill-favored  jade, 
whom  no  gentleman  could  think  of  setting 
up  in  his  stables  ?  IMust  I,  rather  than  not 
be  obliged  to  my  friend,  make  her  a  com- 
l^anion  to  Eclipse  or  Lightfoot  ?  A  horse- 
giver,  no  more  than  a  horse-seller,  has  a 
right  to  palm  his  spavined  article  u^wn  us 
for  good  ware.  An  equivalent  is  expected 
in  either  case  ;  and,  with  my  own  good- will, 
I  would  no  more  be  cheated  out  of  my  thanks 
than  out  of  my  money.  Some  people  have  a 
knack  of  putting  upon  you  gifts  of  no  real 
value,  to  engage  you  to  substantial  gratitude. 
\ye  thank  them  for  nothing.  Our  friend 
jVIitis  carries  this  humor  of  never  refusing  a 


240       ®iie  f  a,$t  (^,^m^^  of  ©n». 

present  to  the  very  point  of  absurdity — if  It 
were  possible  to  coui3le  the  ridiculous  with, 
so  much  mistaken  delicacy  and  real  good- 
nature. Not  an  apartment  in  his  fine  house 
(and  he  has  a  true  taste  in  household  decor- 
ations), but  is  stuffed  up  with  some  prepos- 
terous print  or  mirror, — the  worst  adapted 
to  his  panels  that  may  be, — the  presents 
of  his  friends  that  know  his  weakness; 
while  his  nol)le  Vandykes  are  displaced,  to 
make  room  for  a  set  of  daubs,  the  work  of 
some  wretched  artist  of  his  acquaintance, 
who,  having  had  them  returned  upon  his 
hands  for  bad  likenesses,  finds  his  account 
in  bestowing  them  here  gratis.  The  good 
creature  has  not  the  heart  to  mortify  the 
painter  at  the  expense  of  an  honest  refusal. 
It  is  pleasant  (if  it  did  not  vex  one  at  the 
same  time)  to  see  him  sitting  in  his  dining 
parlor ;  surrounded  with  obscure  aunts  and 
cousins  to  God  knows  whom,  while  the 
true  Lady  Marys  and  Lady  Bettys  of  his 
own  honorable  family,  in  favor  to  these 
adopted  frights,  are  consigned  to  the  stair- 
case and  the  lumber-room.  In  like  manner 
his  goodly  shelves  are  one  by  one  stripped 
of  his  favorite  old  authors,  to  give  place 
to  a  collection  of  presentation  copies— the 
flower  and  bran  of  modern  poetr3^  A  pres- 
entation copy,  reader, — if  haply  you  are  yet 
innocent  of  such  favors, — is  a  copy  of  a  book 
which  does  not  sell,  sent  you  by  the  author, 
with  his  foolish  autograph  at  the  beginning 


^u  faist  (g^,aa.$  ot  mm,      241 


of  it;  for  which,  if  a  stranger,  he  only 
demands  your  friendship ;  if  a  brotlier 
author,  he  expects  from  you  a  book  of  yours, 
wliich  does  sell,  in  return.  We  can  speak 
to  experience,  having  by  us  a  tolerable  as- 
sortment of  these  gift-horses.  Not  to  ride 
a  metaphor  to  death — we  are  willing '  to 
acknowledge,  that  in  some  gifts  there  is 
sense.  A  duplicate  out  of  a  friend's  library 
(where  he  has  more  than  one  copy  of  a  rare 
author)  is  intelligible.  There  are  favors 
short  of  the  pecuniary — a  thing  not  fit  to  be- 
hinted  at  among  gentlemen — which  confer 
as  much  grace  upon  the  acceptor  as  the 
offerer ;  the  kind,  Ave  confess,  which  is  most 
to  our  palate,  is  of  those  little  conciliatory 
missives,  which  for  their  vehicle  generally 
choose  a  hamper, — little  odd  presents  of 
game,  fruit,  perhaps  wine, — though  it  is  es- 
sential to  the  delicacy  of  the  latter  that  it 
be  home-made.  AYe  love  to  have  our  friend 
in  the  country  sitting  thus  at  our  table  by 
proxy ;  to  apprehend  his  presence  (though. 
a  hundred  miles  may  be  between  us)  by  a 
turkey,  whose  goodly  aspect  reflects  to  us 
his  "  plump  corpusculum  ; "  to  taste  him  in 
grouse  or  woodcock  ;  to  feel  him  gliding- 
down  in  the  toast  peculiar  to  the  latter  ;  to 
concorporate  him  in  a  slice  of  Canterbury 
brawn.  This  is  indeed  to  have  him  within, 
ourselves ;  to  know  him  intimately ;  such 
participation  is  methinks  unitive,  as  the  old 
theologians  jjhrase  it.  For  these  considera- 
16 


242  ^\it  ^n^i  (^^mp  Of  (glia. 

tions  we  should  be  sorry  if  certain  restrict- 
ive regulations,  which  are  thought  to  bear 
hard  upon  the  peasantry  of  this  country, 
were  entirely  done  away  with.  A  hare,  as 
the  law  now  stands,  makes  many  friends. 
Cains  conciliates  Titius  (knowing  his  f/odt) 
with  a  leash  of  partridges.  Titius  (suspect- 
ing his  partiality  for  them)  passes  them  to 
Lucius;  who  in  his  turn,  preferring  his 
friend's  relish  to  his  own,  makes  them  over 
to  Marcius;  till  in  their  ever-widening 
progress  and  round  of  unconscious  circum- 
migration,  they  distribute  the  seeds  of  har- 
mony over  half  a  parish.  We  are  well  dis- 
posed to  this  kind  of  sensible  remembrances ; 
and  are  the  less  apt  to  be  taken  by  those 
little  airy  tokens — impalpable  to  the  jialate 
— which,  under  the  names  of  rings,  lock- 
ets, keepsakes,  amuse  some  people's  fancy 
mightily.  We  could  never  away  with  these 
indigestible  trifles.  They  are  the  very  kick- 
shaws and  foppery  of  friendship. 


XII. 


THAT  HOME  IS    HOME,  THOUGH  IT    IS  NEVER  SO 
HOMELY. 

Homes  there  are,  we  are  sure,  that  are  no 
homes  ;  the  home  of  the  very  poor  man, 
and  another  which  we  shall  speak  to  pres- 
ently.    Crowded  places  of  cheap  entertain- 


m\t  i;a,$t  (^m\3^  ot  (SUa.         243 

ment,  and  the  benches  of  ale-houses,  if  they 
€ould  si^eak,  might  bear  mournful  testimony 
to  the  first.  To  them  the  very  poor  man 
resorts  for  an  image  of  the  home  which  he 
cannot  find  at  home.  For  a  starved  grate, 
and  a  scanty  firing,  that  is  not  enough  to 
keep  alive  the  natural  heat  in  the  fingers 
of  so  many  shivering  children  with  their 
mother,  he  finds  in  the  depths  of  winter 
always  a  blazing  hearth,  and  a  hob  to  warm 
his  pittance  of  beer  by.  Instead  of  the 
clamors  of  a  wife,  made  gaunt  by  famish- 
ing, he  meets  with  a  cheerful  attendance  be- 
yond the  merits  of  the  trifle  which  he  can 
afford  to  spend.  He  lias  companions  Avhicli 
his  home  denies  him,  for  the  verj^  poor  man 
has  no  visitors.  lie  can  look  into  the  go- 
ings on  of  the  world,  and  speak  a  little  to 
p)olitics.  At  home  there  are  no  politics  stir- 
ring, but  the  domestic.  All  interests,  real 
or  imaginary,  all  topics  that  should  expand 
the  mind  of  man,  and  connect  him  to  a  sym- 
pathy with  general  existence,  are  crushed  in 
the  absorbing  consideration  of  food  to  be  ob- 
tained for  the  family.  Beyond  the  price  of 
bread,  news  is  senseless  and  impertinent. 
At  home  there  is  no  larder.  Here  there 
is  at  least  a  show  of  plenty ;  and  Avhilo 
he  cooks  his  lean  scrap  of  butcher's  meat 
before  the  common  bars,  or  munches  his 
humbler  cold  viands,  his  relishing  bread 
and  cheese  with  an  onion,  in  a  corner,  where 
no  one  reflects  upon  his  poverty,  he  has  a 


'A4.         5;;itc  "g^^t  (<5;s\5;ai).si  of  (Jglia. 


sigbt  of  the  substantial  joint  providing  for 
the  landlord  and  his  family.  He  takes  an 
interest  in  the  dressing  of  it ;  and  while  he 
assists  in  removing  the  trivet  from  the 
fire,  he  feels  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
beef  and  cabbage,  which  he  was  beginning 
to  forget  at  home.  All  this  while  he 
deserts  his  wife  and  children.  But  what 
wife,  and  what  children?  Prosjierous  men, 
who  object  to  this  desertion,  imagine  to 
themselves  some  clean,  contented  family  like 
that  which  they  go  home  to.  But  look  at 
the  countenance  of  the  poor  wives  who 
follow  and  persecute  their  goodman  to  the 
door  of  the  public-house,  which  he  is  about 
to  enter,  when  something  like  shame  would 
restrain  him,  if  stronger  misery  did  not  in- 
duce him  to  pass  the  threshold.  That  face, 
ground  by  want,  in  which  every  cheerful, 
every  conversable  lineament  has  been  long 
effaced  by  misery, — is  that  a  face  to  stay  at 
home  with  ?  is  it  more  a  woman,  or  a  Avild 
cat?  alas  !  it  is  the  face  of  the  wife  of  his 
youth,  that  once  smiled  upon  him.  It  can 
smile  no  longer.  What  comforts  can  it- 
share?  what  burdens  can  it  lighten?  Oh, 
'tis  a  fine  thing  to  talk  of  the  humble  meal 
shared  together !  But  what  if  there  be 
no  bread  in  the  cupboard  ?  The  innocent 
prattle  of  his  children  takes  out  the  sting  of 
a  man's  poverty.  But  the  children  of  tho 
very  poor  do  not  prattle.  It  is  none  of  the 
least  f ricrhtful  features  in  that  condition  that 


Wtit  fa^t  (^^^nxp  of  m^.         245 


there  is  no  childishness  in  its  dwellings. 
Poor  people,  said  a  sensible  old  nurse  to  us 
once,  do  not  bring-  up  their  children  ;  they 
drag  them  up.  The  little  careless  darling 
of  the  wealthier  nursery,  in  their  hovel  is 
transformed  betimes  into  a  premature  re- 
flecting person.  No  one  has  time  to  dandle 
it,  no  one  thinks  it  worth  while  to  coax  it, 
to  soothe  it,  to  toss  it  up  and  down,  to 
humor  it.  There  is  none  to  kiss  away  its 
tears.  If  it  cries,  it  can  only  be  beaten.  It 
has  been  prettily  said,  that  "  a  babe  is  fed 
with  milk  and  praise."  But  the  aliment  of 
this  poor  babe  was  thin,  unnourishing ;  the 
return  to  its  little  baby-tricks,  and  efforts  to 
engage  attention,  bitter,  ceaseless  objurga- 
tion. It  never  had.  a  toy,  or  knew  what  a 
coral  meant.  It  grew  up  without  the  lul- 
laby of  nurses ;  it  was  a  stranger  to  the 
patient  fondle,  the  hushing  caress,  the  at- 
tracting novelt}',  the  costlier  plaything,  or 
the  cheaper  off-hand  contrivance  to  divert 
the  child ;  the  prattled  nonsense  (best  sense 
to  it),  the  wise  impertinences,  the  whole- 
some lies,  the  apt  story  interposed,  that 
puts  a  stop  to  present  sufferings,  and  awak- 
ens the  passions  of  young  wonder.  It  was 
never  sung  to, — no  one  ever  told  to  it  a  tale 
of  the  nursery.  It  was  dragged  up,  to  live 
or  to  die  as  it  happened.  It  had  no  yoimg 
dreams.  It  broke  at  once  into  the  iron 
realities  of  life.  A  child  exists  not  for  the 
very  poor  as  any  object  of  dalliance ;  it  is 


246       ®he  f  <%$'t  (^^m^  «>^  <!^Wa- 

only  another  mouth  to  be  fed,  a  pair  of  little 
hands  to  be  betimes  inured  to  labor.  It  is 
the  rival,  till  it  can  be  the  co-operator  for 
food  with  the  parent.  It  is  never  his  mirth, 
his  diversion,  his  solace;  it  never  makes 
him  young  again,  with  recalling  his  young 
times.  The  children  of  the  very  poor  have 
no  young  times.  It  makes  the  very  heart 
to  bleed  to  overhear  the  casual  street-talk 
between  a  poor  woman  and  her  little  girl, 
a  woman  of  the  better  sort  of  poor,  in  a 
condition  rather  above  the  squalid  beings 
which  Ave  have  been  contemplating.  It  is 
not  of  toys,  of  nursery  books,  of  summer 
holidays  (fitting  that  age);  of  the  promised 
sight,  or  play ;  of  praised  sufficiency  at 
school.  It  is  of  mangling,  and  clear-starch- 
ing, of  the  price  of  coals,  or  of  potatoes. 
The  questions  of  the  child,  that  should  be 
the  very  outpourings  of  curiosity  in  idle- 
ness, are  marked  with  forecast  and  melan- 
choly providence.  It  has  come  to  be  a 
woman — before  it  was  a  child.  It  has 
learned  to  go  to  market ;  it  chaffers,  it  hag- 
gles, it  envies,  it  murmurs;  it  is  knowing, 
acute,  sharpened;  it  never  prattles.  Had 
we  not  reason  to  say,  that  the  home  of  the 
very  poor  is  no  home '? 

There  is  yet  another  home,  which  we  are 
constrained  to  deny  to  be  one.  It  has  a  larder 
wliich  the  home  of  the  poor  man  wants ;  its 
fire-side  conveniences,  of  which  the  poor 
dream  not.     But  with  all  this,  it  is  no  home. 


®hc  fa^st  (^^mp  a(  miiu        247 


It  is — the  house  of  a  man  that  is  infested 
with  many  visitors.  May  we  be  branded 
for  tlie  veriest  cliurl,  if  we  deny  our  lieart 
to  the  many  noble-liearted  friends  tliat  at 
times  exchange  tlieir  dwelling  for  our  poor 
roof !  It  is  not  of  guests  that  we  complain, 
but  of  endless,  purposeless  visitants ;  drop- 
pers in,  as  they  are  called.  We  sometimes 
wonder  from  what  sky  they  fall.  It  is  the 
very  error  of  the  position  of  our  lodging ; 
its  horoscopy  was  ill-calculated,  being  just 
situate  in  a  medium — a  plaguy  suburban 
midspace — fitted  to  catch  idlers  from  town 
or  country.  We  are  older  than  we  were, 
and  age  is  easily  put  out  of  its  way.  We 
have  fewer  sands  in  our  glass  to  reckon 
upon,  and  we  cannot  brook  to  see  them  drop 
in  endlessly  succeeding  impertinences.  At 
our  time  of  life,  to  be  alone  sometimes  is  as 
needful  as  sleep.  It  is  the  refreshing  sleep 
of  the  day.  The  growing  infirmities  of 
age  manifest  themselves  in  nothing  more 
strongly  than  in  an  inveterate  dislike  of  in- 
terruption. The  thing  which  we  are  doing, 
we  wish  to  be  permitted  to  do.  We  have 
neither  much  knowledge  nor  devices;  but 
there  are  fewer  in  the  place  to  which  we 
hasten.  We  are  not  willingly  put  out  of 
our  way,  even  at  a  game  of  ninepins.  While 
youth  was,  we  had  vast  reversions  in  time 
future ;  we  are  reduced  to  a  present  pittance, 
and  ol)liged  to  economize  in  that  article. 
We  bleed  away  our  moments  now  as  hardly 


as  our  ducats.  We  cannot  bear  to  have  our 
thin  wardrobe  eaten  and  fretted  into  by 
moths.  We  are  wilhng  to  barter  our  good 
time  witli  a  friend,  who  gives  us  in  exchange 
liis  own.  Herein  is  tlie  distinction  between 
the  genuine  guest  and  tlie  visitant.  This 
latter  tali:es  your  good  time,  and  gives  you 
his  bad  in  excliange.  Tlie  guest  is  domestic 
to  you  as  your  good  cat,  or  liouseliold  bird; 
the  visitant  is  your  fly,  that  flaps  in  at  your 
window,  and  out  again,  leaving  nothing  but 
a  sense  of  disturbance,  and  victuals  spoiled. 
The  inferior  functions  of  life  begin  to  move 
heavily.  We  cannot  concoct  our  food  with 
interruptions.  Oar  chief  meal,  to  be  nutri- 
tive, must  be  solitary.  With  difficulty  we 
can  eat  before  a  guest;  and  never  under- 
stood what  the  relish  of  public  feasting 
meant.  INIeats  have  no  sapor,  nor  digestion 
fair  play,  in  a  crowd.  The  unexpected  com- 
ing in  of  a  visitant  stops  the  machine. 
There  is  a  punctual  generation  who  time 
their  calls  to  the  precise  commencement  of 
your  dinner-hour — not  to  eat — but  to  see 
you  eat.  Our  knife  and  fork  drop  instinct- 
ively, and  we  feel  that  we  have  swallowed 
our  latest  morsel.  Others  again  show  their 
genius,  as  we  have  said,  in  knocking  the 
moment  you  have  just  sat  down  to  a  book. 
They  have  a  peculiar  compassionate  sneer, 
with  which  they  "  hope  that  they  do  not 
interrupt  your  studies."  Though  they 
flutter  off  the  next  moment,  to  carry  their 


WU  f  ajst  (g,$isay,$  of  (glia.        249 

impertinences  to  the  nearest  student  that 
they  can  call  their  friend,  the  tone  of  the 
book  is  spoiled;  we  shut  the  leaves,  and, 
with  Dante's  lovers,  read  no  more  that  day. 
It  were  well  if  the  effect  of  intrusion  were 
simply  co-extensive  with  its  presence,  but  it 
mars  all  the  good  hours  afterwards.  These 
scratches  in  appearance  leave  an  orifice  that 
closes  not  hastily.  "  It  is  a  prostitution  of 
the  bravery  of  friendship,"  says  worthy 
Bishop  Taylor,  "  to  spend  it  upon  imper- 
tinent people,  who  are,  it  may  be,  loads  to 
their  families,  but  can  never  ease  my  loads." 
This  is  the  secret  of  their  gaddings,  their 
visits,  and  morning  calls.  They  too  have 
homes,  which  are — no  homes. 


xin. 

THAT  YOU  MUST  LOVE    ME    AJiD    LOVE    MY  DOG. 

"  Good  sir,  or  madam-^as  it  may  be — we 
most  willingly  embrace  the  offer  of  your 
friendship.  We  have  long  known  your 
excellent  qualities.  We  have  wished  to 
have  you  nearer  to  us ;  to  hold  you  within 
the  very  innermost  fold  of  our  heart.  We 
can  have  no  reserve  towards  a  person  of 
your  open  and  noble  nature.  The  frank- 
ness of  your  humor  suits  us  exactly.  We 
have  been  long  looking  for  such  a  friend. 
■Quick, — let  us  disburden  our  troubles  into 


250        Z\u  m^i  a^m^  of  min, 

each  other's  bosom, — let  us  make  our  sin- 
gle joys  shine  by  reduplication, — But  yap, 
yap,  ycipf  what  is  this  confounded  cur?  he 
has  fastened  his  tooth,  which  is  none  of 
the  bluntest,  just  in  the  fleshy  part  of  my 
leg." 

"  It  is  my  dog,  sir.  You  must  love  him 
for  my  sake.     Here,  Test— Test— Test !  " 

"  But  he  has  bitten  me." 

"  Ay,  that  he  is  apt  to  do,  till  you  are  bet- 
ter acquainted  with  him.  I  have  had  him 
three  years.     He  never  bites  me." 

^^^'Pi  l/cPi  y^'P  • — "  ^^  '^'^  ^^  i^  again." 

"  O,  sir,  you  must  not  kick  him.  He 
does  not  like  to  be  kicked.  I  expect  my 
dog  to  be  treated  Avith  all  the  respect  due 
to  myself." 

"But  do  you  always  take  him  out  Avith 
you,  when  you  go  a  friendship-hunting  ?  " 

"  Invariably.  'Tis  the  sweetest,  prettiest, 
best-conditioned  animal.  I  call  him  my 
test — the  touchstone  l)y  Avhich  to  try  a  friend. 
No  one  can  properly  be  said  to  love  me,  who 
does  not  love  him." 

"  Excuse  us,  dear  sir — or  madam,  afore- 
said— if  upon  further  consideration  Ave  are 
ol)liged  to  decline  the  otherAA'ise  invaluable 
offer  of  your  friendship.  We  do  not  like 
dogs." 

"  Mighty  well,  sir, — yow.  knoAV  the  condi- 
tions,— you  may  have  Avorse  offers.  Come 
along.  Test." 

The  aboA^e  dialogue  is  not  so  imaginary, 


®hc  m^^t  (^^m^^  ot  min,        251 


but  that,  in  the  intercourse  of  life,  we  have 
had  frequent  occasions  of  breaking  off  an 
agreeable  intimacy  by  reason  of  these  canine 
appendages.  They  do  not  always  come  in 
the  shape  of  dogs  ;  they  sometimes  wear  the 
more  plausible  and  human  character  of  kins- 
folk, near  acquaintances,  my  friend's  friend, 
his  partner,  his  wife,  or  his  children.  We 
could  never  yet  form  a  friendship, — not  to 
speak  of  moi'e  delicate  correspondence, — 
however  much  to  our  taste,  without  the 
intervention  of  some  third  anomaly,  some 
impertinent  clog  aflnxed  to  the  relation — • 
the  understood  dor/  in  the  proverb.  The 
good  things  of  life  are  not  to  be  had  singly, 
but  come  to  us  with  a  mixture, — like  a 
school-boy's  holiday,  with  a  task  affixed  to 
the  tail  of  it.     What  a  delightful  cdmpanion 

is ,  if  he  did  not  always  bring  Install 

cousin  with  him  !  He  seems  to  grow  Avith 
him  ;  like  some  of  those  double  births  which 
we  remember  to  have  read  of  with  such 
wonder  and  delight  in  the  old  "Athenian 
Oracle,"  where  Swift  commenced  author  by 
writing  Pindaric  Odes  (what  a  beginning 
for  him  I)  upon  Sir  William  Temple.  There 
is  the  picture  of  the  brother,  witli  the  little 
brother  peeping  out  at  his  shoulder  ;  a  spe- 
cies of  fraternity,  which  we  have  no  name 
of  kin  close  enough  to  comprehend.     When 

comes,  poking  in  his  head  and  shoulder 

into  your  room,  as  if  to  feel  his  entry, 
you  think,  surely  you  have  now  got  him 


^1x9 


®hc  fasit  (g.^,$ay,$  0f  (gUa. 


to  yourself, — what  a  three  hours'  chat  we 
shall  have  ! — but  ever  in  the  haunch  of  him, 
and  before  his  diffident  body  is  well  dis- 
closed in  your  apartment,  appears  the  haunt- 
ing shadow  of  the  cousin,  overpeering  his 
modest  kinsman,  and  sure  to  overlay  the 
expected  good  talk  with  his  insutferabie 
procerity  of  stature,  and  uncorresponding 
dwarfishness  of  observation.  Misfortunes 
seldom  come  alone.  'Tis  hard  when  a  bless- 
ing comes  accompanied.  Cannot  we  like 
Sempronia,  without  sitting  down  to  chess 
with  her  eternal  brother  V  or  know  Sul- 
picia,  without  knowing  all  the  round  of  her 
card-playing  relations '? — must  my  friend's 
brethren  of  necessity''  be  mine  also?  must 
we  be  hand  and  glove  Avith  Dick  Selby  the 
parson,  or  Jack  Selby  the  calico-printer, 
because  W.  S.,  who  is  neither,  but  a  ripe  wit 
and  a  critic,  has  the  misfortune  to  claim  a 
common  parentage  Avitli  them  ?  Let  him 
lay  down  his  brothers ;  and  'tis  odds  but 
we  will  cast  him  in  a  pair  of  ours  (we  have 
a  superflux)  to  balance  the  concession.  Let 
F.  H.  lay  down  his  garrulous  uncle;  and 
Honorious  dismiss  his  vapid  wife,  and  su- 
perfluous establishment  of  six  boys ;  things 
between  boy  and  manhood — too  ripe  for 
play,  too  raw  for  conversation — that  come 
in,  impudently  staring  their  father's  old 
friend  out  of  countenance  ;  and  will  neither 
aid,  nor  let  alone,  the  conference  ;  that  we 
may  once  more  meet  upon  equal  terms,  as 


mu  p^t  (^,$',$ay.$  of  min.         253 


we  were  wont  to  do  in  the  disengaged  state 
of  bachelorhood. 

It  is  well  if  your  friend,  or  mistress,  be 
content  with  these  canicular  probations. 
Few  young  ladies  but  in  this  sense  keep  a 
dog.  But  when  Rutilia  hounds  at  you  her 
tiger  aunt ;  or  Kuspina  expects  you  to  cher- 
ish and  fondle  her  viper  sister,  whom  she 
has  preposterously  taken  into  her  bosom, 
to  try  stinging  conclusions  upon  your  con- 
stancy ;  they  must  not  complain  if  the  house 
be  rather  thin  of  suitors.  Scylla  must  have 
broken  off  many  excellent  matches  in  her 
time,  if  she  insisted  upon  all  that  loved  her 
loving  her  dogs  also. 

An  excellent  story  to  this  moral  is  told  of 
Meii'y,  of  Delia  Cruscan  memory.  In  tender 
youth  he  loved  and  courted  a  modest  ap- 
panage to  the  Opera, — in  truth  a  dancer, — 
who  had  won  him  by  the  artless  contrast 
between  her  manners  and  situation.  She 
seemed  to  him  a  native  violet,  that  had  been 
transplanted  by  some  rude  accident  into 
that  exotic  and  artificial  hot-bed.  Nor,  in 
truth,  was  she  less  genuine  and  sincere  than 
she  appeared  to  him.  He  wooed  and  ■\A'on 
this  flower.  Only  for  appearance'  sake,  and 
for  due  honor  to  the  bride's  relations,  she 
craved  that  she  might  have  the  attendance 
of  her  friends  and  kindred  at  the  approaching 
solemnity.  The  request  was  too  amiable  not 
to  be  conceded ;  and  in  this  solicitude  for 
conciliating  the  good-will  of  mere  relations. 


254        ^U  l^aist  m^nxp  at  min, 

he  found  a  presage  of  her  superior  attentions 
to  himself,  when  the  golden  shaft  should  have 
"  killed  the  flock  of  all  affections  else."  The 
morning  came  ;  and  at  the  Star  and  Garter, 
Richmond, — the  place  aj^pointed  for  the 
breakfasting, — accompanied  with  one  Eng- 
lish friend,  he  impatiently  awaited  what  re- 
inforcements the  bride  should  bring  to  grace 
the  ceremony.  A  rich  muster  she  had  made. 
They  came  in  six  coaches — the  whole  corps 
du  ballet — French,  Italian,  men,  and  women. 
Monsieur  de  B.,  the  famous  ^:»iroue^ifer  of  the 
day,  led  his  fair  spouse,  but  craggy,  from  the 
banks  of  the  Seine.  The  Prima  Donna  had 
sent  her  excuse.    But  the  first  and  second 

Buffa  were  there  ;   and  Signor  Sc ,  and 

Signora  Ch ,  and  Madame  V ,  with  a 

countless  cavalcade  besides  of  chorus6rs, 
figurantes !  at  the  sight  of  whom  Merry 
afterwards  declared,  that  "  then  for  the  first 
time  it  struclc  him  seriously,  that  he  was 
about  to  marry — a  dancer."  But  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  Besides,  it  was  her  day ;  these 
were,  in  fact,  her  friends  and  kinsfolk.  The 
assemblage,  though  whimsical,  was  all  very 
natural.  But  when  the  bride — handing  out 
of  the  last  coach  a  still  more  extraordinary 
figure  than  the  rest — i^resented  to  him  as  her 
father — the  gentleman  that  was  to  give  her 
aicai/ — no  less  a  person  than  Signor  Delpini 
himself — with  a  sort  of  pride,  as  nuich  as  to 
say,  See  what  I  have  brought  to  do  us  honor! 
— the  thought  of  so  extraordinary  a  paternity 


®he  pi^t  (^^^f^iwp  of  C?Ua.         255 


quite  overcame  him ;  and  slipping  away 
under  some  pretense  from  the  bride  and 
her  motley  adherents,  poor  jNIerry  took  horse 
from  the  "backyard  to  the  nearest  sea-coast, 
from  which,  shipping'  himself  to  America, 
he  shoi-tly  after  consoled  himself  with  a  more 
congenial  match  in  the  person  of  jMiss 
Brunton  ;  relieved  from  his  intended  clown 
father,  and  a  bevy  of  painted  buffas  for 
bridemaids. 


XIV. 
THAT  WE  SHOULD  RISE  WITH  THE  LARK. 

At  what  precise  minute  that  little  airy 
musician  doffs  his  night-gear,  and  prepares 
to  tune  up  his  unseasonable  matins,  we  are 
not  naturalists  enough  to  determine.  But 
for  a  mere  human  gentleman — that  has 
no  orchestra  business  to  call  him  from  his 
warm  bed  to  such  i:)reposterous  exercises — 
we  take  ten,  or  half  after  ten  (eleven,  of 
course,  during  this  Christmas  solstice),  to 
be  the  very  earliest  hour  at  which  he  can 
begin  to  think  of  abandoning  his  pillow.  To 
think  of  it,  we  say  ;  for  to  do  it  in  earnest 
requires  another  half  hour's  good  considera- 
tion. Not  but  there  are  pretty  sunrisings, 
as  we  are  told,  and  sucii  like  gauds,  abroad 
in  the  world,  in  summer-time  especially,  some 
hours  before  what  we  have  assigned,  which 


2-36         ^hc  p.^t  (^^mp  of  6Ha. 


a  gentleman  may  see,  as  they  say,  only  for 
getting  up.  But  having  been  tempted  once 
or  twice,  in  earlier  life,  to  assist  at  those 
ceremonies,  we  confess  our  curiosity  abated. 
"VVe  are  no  longer  ambitious  of  being  the 
sun's  courtiers,  to  attend  at  his  morning 
levees.  Wq  hold  the  good  hours  of  the 
davv'n  too  sacred  to  waste  them  upon  such 
observances ;  which  have  in  them,  besides, 
something  Pagan  and  Persic.  To  say  truth, 
we  never  anticipated  our  usual  hour,  or  got 
upv/ith  the  sun  (as  'tis  called),  to  go  a  jour- 
ney, or  upon  a  foolish  whole  day's  pleasur- 
ing, but  we  suffered  for  it  all  the  long  hours 
after  in  listlessness  and  headaches  ;  Nature 
herself  sufficiently  declaring  her  sense  or 
our  presumption  in  aspiring  to  regulate  our 
frail  Avaking  courses  by  the  measures  of  that 
celestial  and  sleepless  traveler.  We  deny 
not  that  there  is  something  sprightly  and. 
vigorous,  at  the  outset  especiall}^,  in  these 
break-of-day  excursions.  It  is  flattering 
to  get  the  start  of  a  lazy  world  ;  to  conquer 
death  by  proxy  in  his  image.  But  the  seeds 
of  sleep  and  mortality  are  in  us ;  and  we 
pay  usually,  in  strange  qualms  before  night 
falls,  the  penalty  of  the  unnatural  inversion. 
Therefore,  Avhile  the  busy  part  of  man- 
kind are  fast  huddling  on  their  clothes,  are 
already  up  and  about  their  occupations,  con- 
tent to  have  swallowed  their  sleep  by  whole- 
sale, we  choose  to  linger  a-bed,  and  digest 
our  dreams.     It  is  the  very  time  to  recom- 


bine  the  wandering  images,  whicli  night  in 
a  confused  mass  presented  ;  to  snatch  tlrem 
from  forgetfuhiess ;  to  shape  and  mold 
them.  Some  people  have  no  good  of  their 
dreams.  Like  fast  feeders,  they  gulp  them 
too  grossly,  to  taste  them  curiously.  We 
love  to  chew  the  cud  of  a  foregone  vision  ; 
to  collect  the  scattered  rays  of  a  brighter 
phantasm,  or  act  over  again,  with  firmer 
nerves,  the  sadder  nocturnal  tragedies ;  to 
drag  into  daylight  a  struggling  and  half- 
vanishing  nightmare ;  to  handle  and  examine 
the  terrors,  or  the  airy  solaces.  We  have 
too  much  respect  for  these  spiritual  com- 
munications to  let  them  go  so  lightly.  We 
are  not  so  stupid,  or  so  careless  as  that 
Imperial  forgetter  of  his  dreams,  that  we 
should  need  a  seer  to  remind  us  of  the  form 
of  them.  They  seem  to  us  to  have  as  much 
significance  as  our  Avaking  concerns :  or 
rather  to  import  us  more  nearly,  as  more 
nearly  Ave  approach  by  years  to  the  sliadowy 
Avorld,  Avhither  Ave  are  hastening.  We  have 
shaken  hands  Avitli  the  Avorld's  business  ; 
Ave  have  done  Avith  it ;  Ave  have  discharged 
onrself  of  it.  Why  should  v/e  get  up  ? 
AVe  have  neither  suit  to  solicit,  nor  affairs 
to  manage.  The  drama  has  shut  in  upon 
us  at  the  fourtli  act.  We  haA-e  nothing  here 
to  expect,  but  in  a  short  time  a  sick-bed, 
and  a  dismissal.  We  delight  to  anticipate 
death  by  such  shadoAvs  as  night  affords. 
We  are  already  half  acquainted  Avith  ghosts. 
17 


258         ii^kt  ^a.^t  Cr.^.say,^  of  (gUa. 

We  were  never  much  in  the  world,  Dis- 
appointment  early  struck  a  dark  veil  be- 
tween us  and  its  dazzling  illusions.  Our 
spirits  showed  gray  before  our  hairs.  The 
mighty  changes  of  the  world  already  ap- 
pear  as  but  the  vain  stuff  out  of  which 
dramas  are  composed.  We  have  asked  no 
more  of  life  than  what  the  mimic  images  in 
play-houses  present  us  with.  Even  those 
types  have  waxed  fainter.  Our  clock  ap- 
pears to  have  struck.  We  are  superan- 
nuated. In  this  dearth  of  mundane  satis- 
faction, we  contract  politic  alliances  with 
shadows.  It  is  good  to  have  friends  at 
court.  The  abstracted  media  of  dreams 
seem  no  ill  introduction  to  that  spiritual 
presence,  upon  which,  in  no  long  time,  we 
expect  to  be  thrown.  AVe  are  trying  to 
know  a  little  of  the  usages  of  that  colony  ; 
to  learn  the  language,  and  the  faces  we  shall 
meet  with  there,  that  we  may  be  the  less 
awkward  at  our  first  coming  among  them. 
We  willingly  call  a  phantom  our  fellow,  as 
knowing  we  shall  soon  be  of  their  dark  com- 
panionship. Therefore,  we  cherish  dreams. 
We  try  to  spell  in  them  the  alphabet  of  the 
invisible  world ;  and  think  Ave  know  already 
how  it  shall  be  with  us.  Those  uncouth 
shapes,  which,  while  we  clung  to  flesh  and 
blood,  affrighted  us,  have  become  familiar. 
We  feel  attenuated  into  their  meager 
essences,  and  have  given  the  hand  of  half- 
way approach  to  incorporeal  being.    We 


®hf  i:a.st  (^^^n\p  of  (Blm,        259 


once  thought  hfe  to  be  somethmg;  but  it 
has  unaccountably  fallen  from  us  before  its 
time.  Therefore  we  choose  to  dally  with 
visions.  The  sun  has  no  purposes  of  ours 
to  light  us  to.     Why  should  we  get  up  ? 


XV. 
THAT  WE  SHOULD    LIE  DOWX    WITH  THE  LAMB. 

We  could  never  quite  understand  the 
philosophy  of  this  arrangement,  or  the  wis- 
dom of  our  ancestors  in  sending  us  for 
instruction  to  these  woolly  bedfellows.  A 
sheei3,  when  it  is  dark,  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  shut  his  silly  eyes,  and  sleep  if  he 
can.  Man  found  out  long  sixes, — Hail, 
candle-light !  without  disi^aragement  to  sun 
or  moon,  the  kindliest  luminary  of  the 
three, — if  we  may  not  rather  style  thee 
their  radiant  deputy,  mild  viceroy  of  the 
moon  ! — We  love  to  read,  talk,  sit  silent,  eat, 
drink,  sleep,  by  candle-light.  They  are 
everybody's  sun  and  moon.  This  is  our 
peculiar  and  household  planet.  Wanting 
it,  what  savage  unsocial  niglits  must  our 
ancestors  have  spent,  wintering  in  caves 
and  unillumined  fastnesses !  They  must 
have  lain  about  and  grumbled  atone  another 
in  the  dark.  AVhat  repartees  could  have 
passed,  when  you  must  have  felt  about  for 
a  smile,  and  handled  a  neighbor's  cheek  to 


260      (The  |:ji,^t  (^^$^\p  of  mm. 


be  sure  that  he  understood  it  ?  This  ac- 
counts for  the  seriousness  of  the  elder 
poetry.  It  has  a  somber  cast  (try  Hesiod  or 
Ossian),  derived  from  the  tradition  of  those 
unlanterned  nig'hts.  Jokes  came  in  with 
candles.  ^Ve  wonder  how  they  saw  to  pick 
up  a  pin,  if  they  had  any.  How  did  they 
sup?  what  a  melange  of  chance  carving  they 
must  have  made  of  it ! — here  one  had  got  a 
leg  of  a  goat,  Avhen  he  Avanted  a  horse's 
shoulder — there  ,  another  had  dipped  his 
scooped  palm  in  a  kid-skin  of  wild  honey, 
when  he  meditated  right  mare's  milk. 
There  is  neither  good  eating  nor  drinking 
in  fresco.  Who,  even  in  these  civilized 
times,  has  never  experienced  this,  when  at 
some  economic  cable  he  has  commenced 
dining  after  dusk,  and  waited  for  the  flavor 
till  the  lights  came  ?  The  senses  absolutely 
give  and  take  reciprocally.  Can  you  tell 
pork  from  veal  in  the  dark  ?  or  distinguish 
Sherris  from  pure  Malaga  ?  Take  away  the 
candle  from  the  smoking  man  ;  by  the  glim- 
mering of  the  left  ashes,  he  knows  that  he 
is  still  smoking,  but  he  knows  it  only  by  an 
inference  ;  till  the  restored  light,  coming  in 
aid  of  the  olfactories,  reveals  to  both  senses 
the  full  aroma.  Then  how  he  redoubles  his 
puffs  !  how  he  burnishes  ! — There  is  absol- 
utely no  such  thing  as  reading  but  by  a 
candle.  "We  have  tried  the  affectation  of  a 
book  at  noonday  in  gardens,  and  in  sultry 
arbors ;  but  it  Avas    labor    thrown  away. 


^\\t  i^aist  (^s^mp  ot  (6lia.        2G1 


Those  gay  motes  in  the  beam  come  about 
you,  hovering-  and  teasing,  like  so  many 
coquettes,  tliat  will  have  you  all  to  their 
self,  and  are  jealous  of  your  abstractions. 
By  the  midnight  taper  the  writer  digests 
his  meditations.  By  the  same  light  we 
must  approach  to  their  perusal,  if  we  would 
catch  the  flame,  the  odor.  It  is  a  mockery, 
Jill  that  is  reported  of  the  influential 
Phoebus.  No  true  poem  ever  owned  its 
birth  to  the  sun's  light.  They  are  ab- 
stracted works — 

*' Things  that    were  born,   when  none  but  the  still 
night, 
And  his  dumb  candle,  saw  his  pinching  throes." 

IMarry,  daylight — daylight  might  furnish 
tlie  images,  the  crude  material ;  but  for  the 
line  shapings,  the  true  turning  and  filing 
(as  mine  author  hath  it),  they  nuist  be  con- 
tent to  hold  their  inspiration  of  the  candle. 
The  mild  internal  light,  that  reveals  them, 
like  fires  on  the  domestic  hearth,  goes  out  in 
the  sunshine.  Xight  and  silence  call  out  tlie 
>starry  fancies.  Milton's  Morning  Hymn  in 
Paradise,  Ave  would  hold  a  good  Avager,  Avas 
penned  at  midnight;  and  Taylor's  rich  de- 
scription of  a  sunrise  smells  decidedly  of  the 
taper.  Ea'cu  ourself,  in  these  our  hnmbler 
lucubrations,  tune  our  best-measured  ca- 
dences (Prose  has  her  cadences)  not  unfre- 
quently  to  thccharm  of  the  drowsier  Avatch- 
man,  "■  blessing  tlie    doors ; "   or    the   Avild 


262        W\u  p^t  a^m^^  ot  mm. 

sweep  of  winds  at  midnight.  Even  now 
a  loftier  speculation  than  Ave  have  yet  at- 
tempted courts  our  endeavors.  ^Ye  would 
indite  something  about  the  Solar  System. — 
Jietti/,  bring  the  candles. 


XVI. 

THAT  A  STTLKY  TEMPER    IS  A  MISFOETUXE. 

« 

We  grant  that  it  is,  and  a  vei'y  serious  one 
— to  a  man's  friends,  and  to  all  that  have 
to  do  with  him  ;  but  whether  the  condition  of 
the  man  himself  is  so  much  to  be  deplored, 
may  admit  of  a  question.  We  can  speak  a, 
little  to  it,  being  ourself  but  lately  recovered 
— we  whisper  it  in  confidence,  reader — out 
of  a  long  and  desperate  fit  of  the  sullens. 
Was  the  cure  a  blessing  ?  The  conviction 
which  wrought  it  came  too  clearly  to  leave 
a  scruple  of  the  fanciful  injuries — for  they 
Avere  mere  fancies — which  had  provoked  the 
humor.  But  the  humor  itself  was  too  self- 
pleasing,  Avhile  it  lasted — we  know  how 
bare  we  lay  ourself  in  the  confession — to  be 
abandoned  all  at  once  vj\t\\  the  grounds  of 
it.  We  still  .brood  over  wrongs  which  we 
know  to  have  been  imaginary ;  and  for  our 

old  acquaintance  X ,  Avhom  we  find  to 

have  been  a  truer  friend  than  we  took  him 
for,  we  substitute  some  phantom — a  Caius 
or  a  Titius — as  like  him  as  we  dare  to  form 


^Ut  pj^t  (S's-'^aysi  of  drtia.         263 


it,  LO  wreak  our  yet  unsatisfied  resentments 
on.  It  is  mortifying  to  fall  at  once  from  the 
pinnacle  of  neglect ;  to  forego  the  idea  of 
having  been  ill-used  and  contumaciously 
treated,  by  an  old  friend.  The  first  thing  to 
aggrandize  a  man  in  his  own  conceit  is  to 
conceive  of  himself  as  neglected.  There  let 
him  fix  if  he  can.  To  undeceive  him  is  to 
deprive  him  of  the  most  tickling  morsel  with- 
in the  range  of  self-complacency.  No  flat- 
tery can  come  near  it.  Happy  is  he  who 
suspects  his  friend  of  an  injustice;  but 
supremely  blest,  who  thinks  all  his  friends 
in  a  conspiracy  to  depress  and  undervalue 
him. 

There  is  a  pleasure  (we  sing  not  to  the  pro- 
fane) far  beyond  the  reach  of  all  that  the 
world  counts  joy — a  deep,  enduring  satis- 
faction in  the  depths,  where  the  superficial 
seek  it  not,  of  discontent.  "Were  we  to  recit3 
one-half  of  this  mystery,  which  we  were 
let  into  by  our  late  dissatisfaction,  all  the 
world  Would  be  in  love  with  disrespect ;  we 
should  wear  a  slight  for  a  bracelet,  and  neg- 
lects and  contumacies  would  be  the  only 
matter  for  courtship.  Unlike  to  tliat  mys- 
terious book  in  the  Apocalyjjse,  the  study 
of  this  mystery  is  unpalatable  only  in  the 
commencement.  The  first  sting  of  a  sus- 
picion is  grievous  ;  but  wait — out  of  that 
wound,  which  to  flesh  and  blood  seemed  so 
difficult,  there  is  balm  and  honey  to  be  ex- 
tracted.   Your  friend  passed  you  on  such  a 


264         ^l\c  |:a.si  a^^np  ot  Clia. 


day, — having  in  his  company  one  that  j^ou 
conceived  worse  tlian  ambiguously  disposed 
towards  you, — passed  you  in  the  street 
without  notice.  To  be  sure  he  is  some- 
thing short-sighted ;  and  it  was  in  your 
power  to  have  accosted  /u'm.  But  facts  and 
sane  inferences  are  trifles  to  a  true  adept 
in  the  science  of  dissatisfaction.     He  must 

have  seen  you ;   and  S ,  who  was  with 

him,  must  have  been  the  cause  of  the  con- 
tempt. It  galls  you,  and  well  it  may.  But 
have  patience.  Go  home,  and  make  the 
worst  of  it,  and  you  are  a  made  man  from 
this  time.  Shut  yourself  up,  and — rejecting, 
as  an  enemy  to  your  xjeace,  every  whisper- 
hig  suggestion  that  but  insinuates  there  may 
be  a  mistake — reflect  seriously  upon  the 
many  lesser  instances  which  you  had  begun 
to  perceive,  in  proof  of  }■  our  friend's  dis- 
affection towards  you.  None  of  them  singly 
was  much  to  the  purpose,  but  the  aggregate 
"weight  is  positive ;  and  you  have  this  last 
affront  to  clench  them.  Thus  far  the  pro- 
cess is  anything  but  agreeable.  But  now  to 
your  relief  comes  in  the  comparative  faculty. 
You  conjure  up  all  the  kind  feelings  you 
have  had  for  your  friend ;  Avhat  you  have 
been  to  him,  and  what  you  would  luive  been 
to  him,  if  he  would  have  suffered  you ;  how 
you  defended  him  in  this  or  that  place ;  and 
his  good  name,  his  literary  reputation,  and 
so  forth,  was  always  dearer  to  you  than  your 
own!     Your  heart,  Si3ite  of  itself,  yearns 


Z%t  ^m^i  (^^$nxp  0f  (»:Ua.         26? 


towards  him.  Yon  could  weep  tears  of  blood 
but  for  a  restraining  pride.  How  soy  you ! 
do  you  not  yet  begin  to  apprehend  a  com- 
fort ?  some  allay  of  sweetness  in  the  bitter 
waters?  Stop  not  here,  nor  penuriously 
cheat  yourself  of  your  reversions.  You  are 
on  vantage  ground.  Enlarge  your  specu- 
lations, and  take  in  the' rest  of  your  friends, 
as  a  spark  kindles  more  sparks.  "Was  there 
one  among  them,  who  has  not  to  you  proved 
hollow,  false,  slippery  as  water?  Begin  to 
think  that  the  relation  itself  is  inconsistent 
with  mortality — that  the  very  idea  of 
friendship,  with  its  component  parts,  as 
honor,  fidelity,  steadiness,  exists  but  in  your 
single  bosom.  Image  yourself  to  yourself, 
as  the  only  possible  friend  in  a  v.orld  in- 
capable of  that  communion.  Now  the 
gloom  thickens.  The  little  star  of  self-love 
twinkles,  that  is  to  encourage  you  through 
deeper  glooms  than  this.  You  are  not  yet 
nt  the  half  point  of  your  elevation.  You 
are  not  yet,  believe  me,  half  sulky  enough. 
Adverting  ^o  the  world  in  general  (as  these 
circles  in  'he  mind  will  sprc.ul  to  infinity), 
reflect  with  what  strange  injustice  you  have 
been  treated  in  quarters  where  (setting 
gratitude  and  the  expectation  of  friendly 
returns  aside  as  chimeras)  yott  pretended  no 
claim  beyond  justice,  the  naked  due  of  all 
Inen.  Think  the  very  idea  of  right  and  fit 
fled  from  tlie  earth,  or  your  breast  the  soli- 
tary receptacle  of  it,  till  you  have  swelled 


yourself  into  at  least  one  hemisphere ;  the 
other  being  the  vast  Arabia  Stony  of  your 
friends  and  the  world  aforesaid.  To  grow 
bigger  every  moment  in  your  own  conceit, 
and  the  world  to  lessen ;  to  defy  yourself 
at  the  expense  of  your  species  ;  to  judge  the 
world, — this  is  the  acme  and  supreme  point 
of  your  mystery, — these  the  true  Pleasures 
OF  SuLKiNEss.  Wo  profcss  no  more  of 
this  grand  secret  than  what  ourself  ex- 
perimented on  one  rainy  afternoon  in  the 
last  week,  sulking  in  our  study.  We  had 
liroceedecl  to  the  penultimate  point,  at  which 
the  true  adept  seldom  stops,  where  the  con- 
sideration of  benefit  forgot  is  about  to  merge 
in  the  meditation  of  general  injustice — when 
a  knock  at  the  door  was  followed  by  the 
entrance  of  the  very  friend  whose  not  see- 
ing of  us  in  the  morning  (for  we  will  now 
confess  the  case  our  own),  an  accidental 
oversight,  had  given  rise  to  so  much  agree- 
able generalization !  To  mortify  us  still 
more,  and  take  down  the  whole  flattering 
superstructure  which  pride  had  piled  upon 
neglect,  he  had  brought  in  his  hand  the 
identical  S ,  in  whose  favor  we  had  sus- 
pected him  of  the  contumacy.  Assevera- 
tions were  needless,  where  the  frank  inan- 
ner  of  them  both  was  convictive  of  the  in- 
jurious nature  of  the  suspicion.  We  fan- 
cied that  they  jDerceived  our  embarrassment; 
but  were  too  proud,  or  something  else,  to 
confess  to  the  secret  of  it.     We  had  been 


®he  faist  €^mp  0f  mm,         267 


but  too  lately  in  the  condition  of  the  noble 
patient  in  Argos  : — 

Qui  se  credebat  miros  audire  tragoedos, 
In  vacuo  lietus  sessor  i>lausorque  tlieatro— 

and  ccmld  have  exclaimed  with  equal  reason 
against  the  friendly  hands  that  cured  us — 

Pol,  me  occidistis,  amici, 
"fon  servastis,  ait  ;  cui  sic  extorta  voluptas, 
£t  demptus  per  vim  mentis  gratissimus  error» 


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1.  A  Book  of  Golden  Deeds.    C.  M.  Yonge. 

2.  Black  Beauty.    Anna  Sewall. 

3.  Browning's  Poems,    Robert. 

4.  Carlyle's  History  of  the  French  Revolution,  Vol.  1. 

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6.  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.    Lord  Byron. 

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8.  Crown  of  Wild  Olives.    John  Ruskin. 

9.  Dickens'  Story  Teller. 

10.  Dickens'  Shorter  Stories. 

11.  Dreams.    Oliver  Schreiner. 

12.  Dream  Life.    Ik.  Marvel.  (D.  G.  Mitchell.) 

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15.  Emerson's  Essays,  2d  series- 

16.  Essays  of  Elia.     Lamb. 

17.  Ethics  of  the  Dust.    John  Ruskin. 

18.  Evangeline.    Henry  W.  LongfelloWt 

19.  Favorite  Poems. 

20.  Frankenstein.    Mrs.  Shelley. 

SI.    Half  Hours  With  Great  Authors. 
22.    Half  Hours  With  Great  Novelists. 


HANDY  VOLUME  CLASSICS-  jontinued. 

S3.  Ha'if  Hours  With  Great  Story  Tellers. 

24.  Half  Hours  With  Great  Humorists. 

25.  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.    Thomas  CarlylSv 

26.  House  of  Seven  Gables    Nathaniel  Hawtnome. 

27.  Idylls  of  the  King.    Lord  Tennyson. 

28.  Imitation  of  Christ.    Thomas  a  Kempis. 

29.  In  Memoriam.    Lord  Tennyson. 

30.  John  Halifax,  Vol.  1.    Miss  Mulock. 
■M.       "  "  "     2. 

32.  Lalla  Rookh.    Thomas  Moore. 

33.  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers.    "W.  E.  Aytoun. 

34.  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.    Loi-d  Macaulay. 

35.  Light  of  Asia.    Sir  Edwin  Arnold. 

36.  Longfellow's  Earlier  Poems. 

til.  LornaDoone,  Vol.  ].    R.  D .  Blackmore. 

38  "         "  "    2.        "  " 

39!  Love  Letters  of  a  Worldly  Woman.    Mrs.  W.  K.  Clif* 

ford. 

'10.  Lowell's  Earlier  Poems. 

41.  Lucile.    Owen  Meredith. 

42.  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Vol.  1.    George  Eliot. 

43.  "        "  "         "     2.         "  " 

44.  Mornings  in  Florence.    John  Ruskin. 

45.  Mosses  From  An  Old  Manse.    Nathaniel  Hawtbomew^ 

46.  Past  and  Present.     Thomas  Cariyle. 

47.  Paul  and  Virginia.    Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre. 

48.  ^  Poe's  Poems. 

49.  Queen  of  the  Air.     John  Ruskin. 

50.  Rab  and  His  Friends.    Dr.  John  Brown. 

51.  Rasselas.    Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

62.  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.    Ik.  Marvel.  (D.G.Mitchell.> 

53.  Sartor  Resartus.    Thomas  Cariyle. 

54.  Sesame  and  Lilies.    John  Ruskin. 

55.  Scarlet  Letter.    Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

56.  Ships  That  Pass  in  the  Night.    Beatrice  Harraden. 

57.  Sketch  Book ,    Washington  jfrving. 

58.  Story  of  an  African  Farm.    Olive  Schreiner. 

69.  Tales  from  Shakespeare.    Charles  and  Mary  Lamlv 
6C. ,.  Teachings  of  Epititus. 

61.  Tennyson's  Complete  Poems,  Vol.  1. 

62.  '•  "  "  ''     3. 

63.  Tillylo=s  Scandal    J.  M.  Rarrie. 

64.  The  Thou«j/its  of  Marcus  Aurelius  Antoniaus. 

65.  The  Coming  Race.    Lord  Lytton. 

66.  The  Last  Essays  of  Elia.    Lamb. 

67.  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.    Sir  Walter  Scott. 

68.  -  Tbd  Pleasures  of  Life.    Sir  John  Lubbock. 

69.  Through  the  Gates  of  Gold. 

70.  Twice  Told  Tales.    Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

71.  tJncle  Tom's  Cabin.    Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
12.  Vanity  Fair,  Vol.  1.    Thackeray. 

73.  "  "         "    2  " 

74.  Vicar  of  Wakefield.    Oliver  Goldsmith. 

75.  Wide  Wide  World,  Vol.  1.    Elizabeth  Wethjrelk 

76.  "         "  "         "    2.  "  *• 

77.  Whittier's  Earlier  Poems 

J8.  The  Princess  ^':aud.    Lord  Tennyson. 


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